IC-NRLF 


THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


THE    EARTH    CRY 

AND  OTHER    POEMS 


EARTH  CRY 

and  other  Poems 

By 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Mitchell  Kennerley 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  poems  appearing  in 
this  volume,  the  Author  thanks  the  editors  of  Harper's, 
Scribner's,  The  Century,  The  Smart  Set,  Ainslee's,  Lip- 
pincott's,  The  Delineator,  The  Metropolitan,  The  Cos 
mopolitan,  Munsey's,  McClure's,  The  Bookman,  Collier's 
Weekly,  and  others. 


TO 

THE  LOVELY  MEMORY 
OF 

MARTHA  JORDAN  FISHEL 


304242 


THE  CONTENTS 


T^HE  Earth  Cry 
The  Prodigal 


13 
17 

The  Neighbors  18 

A  Prayer  20 

The  Gifts  of  Gold  21 

The  Faun  22 

Ballad  of  the  Saint  24 

The  Voice  of  Love  26 
The  Garden  of  Fair 

Words  28 

'Toinette  29 

Old  Friendship  Street  31 

Ilicet  33 

Lovers  35 

We—  Grown  Old  37 

The  Unlighted  House  38 
Would  it  had  been  Mine 

Enemy  40 

Heroes  41 

The  Unrepentant  42 

The  Return  44 

Afterward  45 

New  Roses  46 

The  Child  47 


Conscience  49 

A  Song  in  Autumn  50 

The  Day  is  Come  51 

"Et  in  Arcadia  Ego"  52 

Compensation  54 

Vagabonds  55 

The  Sending  56 

The  Book  59 

Saint  Cecily  60 

A  Song  to  Belinda  61 

How  will   it  be?  62 

The  Passing  63 

The  Wife  65 

The  Cure's  Niece  66 

Lost  Gifts  68 

Time  69 
At  Columbine's  Window  70 

The  Hills  73 

Harvest  74 
The  Ballad  of  the  Angel  76 

Illumination  78 

Pan  79 

A  City  Voice  81 

Love  Lore  83 


THE  CONTENTS 


Lost  Summer  84 
The  King's  Kiss  85 
All  Souls'  Day  87 
A  Book  of  Verses  88 
The  Barred  Door  89 
Exorcism  90 
The  Aspen  Tree  93 
The  Welcoming  94 
A  Woman  95 
The  Ballad  of  the  Scul 
lion  Maid  96 
A  Wife  99 
The  Consoler  100 
Unconquered  101 
The  Lost  Land  102 
The  Limping  One  104 
A  Prayer  to  Azrael  105 
The  Memory  106 
The  Exile  107 
The  Ballad  of  the  Com 
forting  108 
A  Parable  109 
The  Victor  no 
A  Song  of  Love  112 


A  Book  of  Celtic  Verse  113 

Two  Creeds  1 1 4 

The   Prisoners  1 1 5 

A  Fable  116 

The   Little   Ghost  117 

Two  Sins  118 

The  Stranger  119 

Gathered  Roses  120 

Irony  121 

The  Unforgotten  122 

A  Prayer  to  Love  123 

A  Fading  Rose  124 

Unshriven  .125 

A   Memory  126 

The  Last  Gift  127 

The  Pagan  Soul  128 

Youth  129 

The  Annunciation  130 

Recrimination  131 

The  Mother  132 

A  Rainy  Day  133 

Knowledge  134 

A  Prayer  135 
The  Wedding  Bonnet     137 


8 


THE  CONTENTS 


Labor  138 

The  Spring  Call  139 

One  Fight  More  141 

The  Penitent  142 

Amantium  Iras  143 

The  Cloistered  Rose  144 

Resurgam  145 


The     Ballad     of     the 

Cross  147 

The  Woman's  Thanks  149 
A  Ghost  151 

The  New  Moon  152 

The   Last   Song  159 


THE    EARTH    CRY 


THE  EARTH  CRY 
[A  Spirit  and  an  Angel\ 


THE   SPIRIT 

TJ  OW  blue  the  sky  is  and  how  sweet  the  air ! 
Sister,  is  this  a  meadow  where  we  stray? 
See  where  the  blossoms  break,  and  over  there 

Surely  a  bird  is  singing.    Yesterday 
I  had  not  thought  that  Heaven  was  like  this. 

THE   ANGEL 

Now  was  it  yesterday? 

THE  SPIRIT 

I  only  know 
I  have  gone  gently  on  from  bliss  to  bliss ; 

I  am  too  glad  for  laughter ;  nay,  I  grow 
Silent  from  very  peace  of  comforting. 

Yet,  sometimes,  like  a  memory  of  pain, 
A  shadow  of  a  grief,  there  seems  to  sting 

A  vague,  insistent  sorrow,  like  a  strain 
Of  some  lost  melody  that  haunts  and  stays. 

13 


THE  EARTH  CRY 


TH2   ANGEL 

Men  call  it  "  Fear  o'  Death." 


THE   SPIRIT 

A  thing  less  rife 
With  fear  it  is,  yet  keener. 

THE    ANGEL 

In  the  ways 
Of  little  earth  men  call  it  "  Love  o'  Life." 

THE   SPIRIT 

"  Men  call  it  '  Love  o'  Life'."    Perchance  so,  I 
May  not  remember.    Now  the  bird  has  ceased, 

How  still  it  is !    How  bluer  than  the  sky 
These  blossoms  are! 

THE   ANGEL 

>  -V 

Our  feet  bend  not  the  least 
Light  petal  of  them.    Nay,  why  stay  you,  sweet  ? 

THE  SPIRIT 

Once  I  knew  eyes  as  blue — /  wonder  where! 

Why,  as  I  bent  just  now  they  seemed  to  meet 
My  own  again,  and  sudden  strangely  bare 

And  empty  seemed  my  arms!    What  means  this  thing? 


THE  EARTH  CRY 

THE  ANGEL 

1  may  not  say. 

THE   SPIRIT 

I  am  so  happy — yet 

Something  within  me  seems  to  turn  and  cling 
To  some  past  joy  I  might  not  quite  forget. 
Hark !   Heard  you  nothing  then  ? 


Perchance  a  bird  sang. 


THE   ANGEL 

I  heard  not,  I. 

THE   SPIRIT 


Ah,  it  was  not  gay. 
So  sad  it  was — a  little  wistful  cry, 

A  little  cry  from  very  far  away, 
So  weak,  so  pitiful.    O,  I  would  go 

Where  the  voice  calls  me ! 


THE   ANGEL 

Sweet,  it  may  not  be. 

THE  SPIRIT 

Hark!  there  it  comes  again.    Ah,  heard  you? 

15 


THE  EARTH  CRY 

THE   ANGEL 

No. 

Turn  and  forget.     Are  you  not  happy?     See 
Where  the  path  leads  to  newer,  lovelier  things 
That  you  have  yet  to  find.    Nay,  touch  my  hand. 

THE   SPIRIT 

O,  must  I  follow? 

THE   ANGEL 

As  a  bird  that  wings 

Its  way  from  height  to  height,  from  touch  of  land 
To  the  blue  distances  of  joy  we  go. 

THE   SPIRIT 

How  beautiful  it  is!     How  bright  the  way! 
I  know  not  what  it  was  that  hurt  me  so 
A  moment  since. 

THE   ANGEL 

And  are  you  happy? 

THE   SPIRIT 

Yea, 

With  a  new  peace,  a  comfort  that  was  not 
All  mine  before.  Sister,  what  means  it,  say? 

THE   ANGEL 

That  God  is  good  and  you  have  quite  forgot. 

16 


THE  PRODIGAL 

\17HEN  I  came  to  you  banned,  dishonored, 

Brother  of  yours  no  more, 

And  raised  my  hands  where  j^our  roof-tree  stands, 
Why  did  you  open  the  door? 

When  I  came  to  you  starving,  thirsting, 

Beggared  of  aught  but  sin, 
Why  did  you  rise  with  welcoming  eyes 

And  lift  me  and  bid  me  in? 

You  have  set  me  first  at  your  feast, 

You  have  robed  me  in  tenderness, 
Yet,  Brothers  of  mine,  these  tears  for  sign 

That  I  would  your  grace  wrere  less. 

For  I  had  not  been  crushed  by  your  hate, 

Who  courted  the  pain  thereof; 
But  you  stab  me  through  when  you  give  anew, 

O  Brothers,  your  love — your  love ! 


THE  NEIGHBORS 

At  first  cock-crow 

The  ghosts  must  go 

Back  to  their  quiet  graves  below. 

A  GAINST  the  distant  striking  of  the  clock 
**•  I  heard  the  crowing  cock, 

And  I  arose  and  threw  the  window  wide; 
Long,  long  before  the  setting  of  the  moon, 
And  yet  I  knew  they  must  be  passing  soon — 
My  neighbors  who  had  died — 
Back  to  their  narrow,  green-roofed  homes  that  wait 
Beyond  the  churchyard  gate. 

I  leaned  far  out  and  waited — all  the  world 
Was  like  a  thing  impearled, 

Mysterious  and  beautiful  and  still; 

The  crooked  road  seemed  one  the  moon  might  lay, 
Our  little  village  slept  in  Quaker  gray, 
And  gray  and  tall  the  poplars  on  the  hill ; 
And  then  far  oft*  I  heard  the  cock — and  then 
My  neighbors  passed  again. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  white  cloud,  nothing  more, 
Slow  drifting  by  my  door, 

18 


THE  NEIGHBORS 

Or  gardened  lilies  swaying  in  the  wind  ; 
Then  suddenly  each  separate  face  I  knew, 
The  tender  lovers  drifting  two  and  two, 
Old,  peaceful  folk  long  since  passed  out  of  mind, 
And  little  children — one  whose  hand  held  still 
An  earth-grown  daffodil. 

And  here  I  saw  one  pausing  for  a  space 
To  lift  a  wistful  face 

Up  to  a  certain  window  where  there  dreamed 
A  little  brood  left  motherless;  and  there 
One  turned  to  where  his  unploughed  fields  lay  bare; 
And  others  lingering  passed — but  one  there  seemed 
So  over-glad  to  haste,  she  scarce  could  wait 
To  reach  the  churchyard  gate! 

The  farrier's  little  maid  who  loved  too  well 
And  died — I  may  not  tell 

How  glad  she  seemed.     My  neighbors,  young  and  old, 
With  backward  glances  lingered  as  they  went  ; 
Only  upon  one  face  was  all  content, 
A  sorrow  comforted — a  peace  untold. 
I  watched  them  through  the  swinging  gate — the  dawn 
Stayed  till  the  last  had  gone. 


A  PRAYER 

I    ET  me  work  and  be  glad, 
•^     O  Lord,  and  I  ask  no  more; 
With  will  to  turn  where  the  sunbeams  burn 
At  the  sill  of  my  workshop  door. 

Aforetime  I  prayed  my  prayer 
For  the  glory  and  gain  of  earth, 

But  now  grown  wise  and  with  opened  eyes, 
I  have  seen  what  the  prayer  was  worth. 

Give  me  my  work  to  do 

And  peace  of  the  task  well  done ; 

Youth  of  the  Spring  and  its  blossoming 
And  the  light  of  the  moon  and  sun. 

Pleasure  of  little  things 

That  never  may  pall  or  end, 
And  fast  in  my  hold  no  lesser  gold 

Than  the  honest  hand  of  a  friend. 

Let  me  forget  in  time 

Folly  of  dreams  that  I  had ; 
Give  me  my  share  of  a  world  most  fair — 

Let  me  work  and  be  glad. 


2O 


THE  GIFTS  OF  GOLD 

P\ESIRE  of  joy — how  keen,  how  keen  it  is! 

(O,  the  young  heart — the  young  heart  in  its  Spring!) 
There  waits  adventure  on  the  road  of  bliss, 

A  challenge  in  each  note  the  free  birds  fling; 
The  spur  of  pride,  the  urge  to  climb  and  kiss — 
Desire  of  joy — how  keen,  how  keen  it  is! 

Desire  of  tears — but  this  is  sweet,  most  sweet. 

(O,  the  young  heart — the  young  heart  in  its  Spring!) 
That  sits  a  little  while  at  Sorrow's  feet 

And  tastes  of  pain  as  some  forbidden  thing; 
That  draught  where  all  things  sweet  and  bitter  meet — 
Desire  of  tears — ah  me,  but  it  is  sweet ! 

Desire  of  joy  and  tears — ah,  gifts  of  gold ! 

(O,  the  young  heart — the  young  heart  in  its  Spring!) 
Once  only  are  these  treasures  in  our  hold, 

Once  only  is  the  rapture  and  the  sting, 
And  then  comes  peace  to  tell  us  we  are  old — 
Desire  of  joy  and  tears — ah,  gifts  of  gold ! 


THE  FAUN 

'""THE  Faun  that  haunts  my  fountain 

Within  the  garden  close, 
Is  neighbor  to  the  lily 

And  comrade  of  the  rose, 
And  all  about  his  dwelling  place 

The  great  oaks  toss  their  blows. 

The  Faun  that  haunts  my  fountain — 

I  hear  his  song  all  day — 
A  melody  made  whimsical, 

A  careless  note  and  gay, 
Mocking  the  bird  that  dips  and  flings 

His  host  a  roundelay. 

The  Faun  that  haunts  my  fountain 
Makes  secret  of  what  whim 

Led  him  from  woods  Ionian, 

Through  unknowrn  paths  and  dim, 

To  make  an  English  garden 
The  chosen  home  of  him. 

The  Faun  that  haunts  my  fountain — 

But  I  alone  have  guessed 
The  reason  of  his  coming, 
22 


THE  FAUN 

The  meaning  of  his  quest : 
He  seeks  a  vanished  dryad, 
A  nymph  Pan  loved  the  best. 

0  Faun  within  my  fountain, 
Last  of  your  lovely  race, 

1  know  what  makes  my  garden  close 
Your  fragrant  dwelling  place. 

*     *     * 

I  saw  who  leaned  above  your  brink 
One  noon  to  see  her  face. 

0  Faun  within  my  fountain, 
I  watch  you  day  by  day, 

1  know  your  pagan  ecstasy 
When  Lydia  comes  your  way, 

What  time  you  stretch  white  arms  to  her 
And  kiss  her  lips  with  spray. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  SAINT 

PHE  Little  Cherubs  whispered, 

"  What  strange  new  soul  is  this 
Who  cometh  with  a  robe  besmirched 

Unto  the  Place  of  Bliss?" 
Then  spake  the  Eldest  Angel, 

"  The  robe  he  wears  is  fair — 
The  groping  ringers  of  the  poor 
Have  held  and  blessed  him  there." 

The  Little  Cherubs  whispered, 

"  Who  comes  to  be  our  guest 
With  dust  about  his  garments'  hem 

And  stains  upon  his  breast?  " 
Then  spake  the  Eldest  Angel, 

"  Most  lovely  is  the  stain — 
The  tears  of  those  he  comforted 

Who  may  not  weep  again." 

The  Little  Cherubs  whispered, 

"  What  strange  new  soul  is  he 
Who  cometh  with  a  burden  here 

And  bears  it  tenderly?  " 
Then  spake  the  Eldest  Angel, 

"  He  bears  his  life's  award — 
The  burden  of  men's  broken  hearts 

To  place  before  the  Lord." 


BALLAD   OF  THE  SAINT 

"  The  dust  upon  his  garments'  hem — 

My  lips  shall  bow  to  it ; 
The  stains  upon  the  breast  of  him 

Are  gems  thrice  exquisite. 
O,  little  foolish  Cherubs, 

What  truth  is  this  ye  miss, 
There  comes  no  saint  to  Paradise 

Who  cotneth  not  like  this!" 


THE  VOICE  OF  LOVE 

TT  was  Love  who  called  me,  a  morning  in  the  meadow, 
*       "Come  out,  sweetheart!    Come  out,  sweetheart,  the 

Spring  is  in  the  land. 
All    the    world    is    wonderful    with    dappled    sun    and 

shadow, 
Here    I    wait    with    happiness    held    close    in    either 

hand." 

O,  I  brake  my  spinning  off, 

Eager  to  be  free. 
Duty  frowned  beside  the  wheel, 

"  Do  thy  work!  "  quoth  she. 

It  was  Love  who  called  me  at  noontide  in  the  greenwood, 
"Come  out,  sweetheart !  Come  out,  sweetheart,  and  in 

the  silence  rest! 
Take  thine  ease  beneath  the  leaves  as  softly  as  a  queen 

should, 
Both  my  arms  about  thee  and  thy  head  upon  my  breast." 

O,  I  raised  my  weary  head, 

Longing  wistfully: 
Duty  set  the  wheel  astir, 

"  Do  thy  work !  "  quoth  she. 
26 


THE  VOICE  OF  LOVE 

Through  the  gloom  of  twilight  the    nesting   birds   were 

calling — 

Sick  at  heart  I  turned  the  wheel  whom  none  might  sum 
mon  more, 
When,  like  touch  of  rain  in  May,  came  sound  of  swift 

feet  falling, 
And  lo,  Love  stood  beside  me  where  Duty  was  before! 

"  Since  thou  wouldst  not  at  my  call, 

Sweet,  I  come  to  thee. 
I  am  here  to  turn  thy  wheel 

And  aid  thy  task,"  quoth  he. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  FAIR  WORDS 

J\/\  Y  friend  lay  stricken  sore  and  at  his  side 

Loudly  my  love  and  loyalty  I  cried, 
Boasting  of  all  that  I  would  do  and  dare 
For  him  whose  welfare  was  my  only  care; 
Yea,  called  High  Heaven  to  witness  if  I  lied, 
And  while  I  still  protested  my  friend  died. 

Last  night  in  dreams  I  watched  two  angels  go 
Through  some  fair  garden  that  I  seemed  to  know ; 
Burdened  with  blossoming  bowed  every  tree, 
And  murmured  one,  "  If  these  but  blossoms  be, 
Judge  w^hen  the  moon  of  harvesting  dips  lows, 
How  wonderful  the  perfect  fruit  must  show !  " 

To  which  the  other  smiling  answered,  "  Nay, 
This  is  the  Garden  of  Fair  Words  men  say ; 
A  barren  blossoming  that  may  not  give 
Of  any  fruit  that  Love  may  eat  and  live." 

And  smiling  both,  they  went  upon  their  way. 
*         *         * 

But  I  awoke  and  hid  my  face  from  day. 


28 


'TOINETTE 

OHE  is  so  old  she  may  not  spin; 
^     All  day  she  sits  here  in  the  sun 

And  speaks  no  word.    The  children  play 
Across  the  threshold,  out  and  in, 
But  I,  'Toinette,  the  crippled  one, 
I  sit  beside  her  day  by  day. 

The  village  folk  go  to  and  fro, 

And  nod  and  smile,  and  sometimes,  too, 

The  cure  stays  and  chats  with  me. 
She  is  so  old  she  does  not  know, 
Although  we  say  her  name  anew 
And  call  her  gently,  I  and  he. 

The  parish  poor  wre  twro,  and  yet 

The  cure  says,  "  God's  children  we," 

And  strokes  my  hair  and  goes  his  way. 
Then  carefully,  lest  I  forget, 

I  think  his  words  again — and  she 
Knows  what  my  silences  would  say. 

Sometimes  I  touch  her  hand  and  tell 
How  the  sun  sets,  or  on  the  green 

How  the  girls  dance.    No  word  I  say, 

29 


'TOILETTE 

Yet  do  I  think  she  heeds  me  well. 
I  dare  not  speak  lest,  having  seen, 
The  children  mock  me  in  their  play. 

And  sometimes,  though  she  never  speaks, 
I  know  she  tells  me  of  the  days 

When  she  too  was  a  little  maid ; 
And  once  were  tears  upon  her  cheeks, 
And  clasped  her  hands  as  one  who  prays. 
And  I — I  knew  for  whom  she  prayed, 

Rare  comrades  wre.    And  all  day  long 
I  sit  beside  her  in  the  sun ; 

The  others  wonder  as  they  go — 
She  is  so  old  and  they  so  strong: 
Yet  I,  'Toinette,  the  crippled  one, 
More  than  they  understand  I  know. 


OLD  FRIENDSHIP  STREET 

T     O VE  led  me  to  an  unknown  land  and  fain  was  I  to  go ; 
From  peak  to  peak  a  weary  way  he  lures  me  to  and 

fro; 

On  narrow  ledge  and  dizzy  height  he  dares  my  way 
worn  feet — 

I  would  that  I  were  back  again  to  walk  Old  Friendship 
Street. 

It's  there  one  knew  the  level  road,  the  even  grass-grown 

way; 
My  brain  grew  never  wildered  there,  my  feet  might  never 

stray; 
But  here   I   quarrel  for  the  path  with  every  soul   I 

meet — 

I  would  that  I  were  back  again  to  walk  Old  Friendship 
Street. 

It's  here  I  find  no  gracious  hand  to  close  within  my  own, 
But  there  one  never  raised  a  song  to  find  he  sang  alone; 
And  always  at  a  neighbor's  hearth  were  kindly  glass 

and  seat — 

I  would  that  I  were  back  again  to  walk  Old  Friendship 
Street. 


OLD  FRIENDSHIP  STREET 

I'm  sick  of  awful  depths  and  heights,  I'm  sick  of  storm 

and  strife; 

I'll  let  Love  lead  for  bolder  folk  and  take  my  ease  in  life. 
I  know  whose  voice  will  hail  me  first,  whose  welcoming 

be  sweet — 

It's  I  am  going  back  again   to  walk  Old   Friendship 
Street. 


ILICET 

[A.  G.] 

T   THINK  the  gentle  soul  of  him 

Goes  softly  in  some  garden  place, 
With  the  old  smile  time  may  not  dim 
Upon  his  face. 

He  who  was  lover  of  the  Spring, 
With  love  that  never  quite  forgets, 

Surely  sees  roses  blossoming 
And  violets. 

Now  that  his  day  of  toil  is  through, 
I  love  to  think  he  sits  at  ease, 

With  some  old  volume  that  he  knew 
Upon  his  knees. 

Watching,  perhaps,  with  quiet  eyes 
The  white  clouds'  drifting  argosy; 

Or  twilight  opening  flower-wise 
On  land  and  sea. 

He  who  so  loved  companionship 
I  may  not  think  walks  quite  alone, 

33 


I  LI  GET 

Failing  some  friendly  hand  to  slip 
Within  his  own. 

Those  whom  he  loved  aforetime,  still, 
I  doubt  not,  bear  him  company; 

Yea,  even  laughter  yet  may  thrill 
Where  he  may  be. 

A  thought,  a  fancy — who  may  tell  ? 

Yet  I  who  ever  pray  it  so, 
Feel  through  my  tears  that  all  is  well  ; 

And  this  I  know, — 

That  God  is  gentle  to  his  guest, 
And,  therefore,  may  I  gladly  say, 

"Surely  the  things  he  loved  the  best 
Are  his  to-day." 


34 


LOVERS 

T  THINK  perhaps  my  heart  would  be  less  sore 

If  I  need  not  look  on  lovers  any  more ; 
If  Winter  only  lasted  all  the  year, 

And  one  could  sit  alone  in  thoughtless  peace 
Beside  the  chimney-place,  and  only  hear 

The  wind-voice  in  the  open  sing  and  cease, 
And  gaze  toward  the  frosted  pane  to  know 
That  all  beyond  was  loneliness  and  snow. 

But  O,  the  Springtime  when  the  birds  are  rife 
And  all  our  little  village  wakes  to  life, 

And  everywhere  Spring  bids  them  come  again, 

As  it  does  roses — all  the  lovers  new ; 
The  stalwart  lads  who  bear  themselves  like  men, 

The  wistful  little  maids,  half  women  too. 
I  wish  it  were  not  mine  to  watch  them  meet 
And  note  the  lingering  hands,  the  halting  feet. 

I  wish  I  might  not  guess  what  words  they  say, 
Nor  what  her  eyes  mean  as  she  turns  away. 
I  wish  I  did  not  know  how  all  day  long, 

Busied  about  her  little  household  cares, 
Her  thoughts  are  music  and  her  heart  a  song — • 

A  harmony  of  all  Love  dreams  and  dares. 
I  wish  I  might  not  think,  when  day  grows  late, 
How  she  will  lean  and  listen  at  the  gate. 

35 


LOVERS 

God  knows  I  would  not  have  their  happiness 
A  lesser  thing  or  strive  to  make  it  less; 
Only  I  wish  it  were  not  mine  to  dwell 

So  close  without  the  gates  of  Paradise ; 
Only  I  wish  I  did  not  know  so  well 

The  tenderness  that  springs  in  meeting  eyes. 
I  think  perhaps  my  heart  would  be  less  sore, 
If  I  need  not  look  on  lovers  any  more. 


WE— GROWN  OLD 

T     WHO  yesterday  was  young, 

Now  am  old  instead ; 
All  of  youth  a  glad  song  sung, 

All  a  story  said. 
It  was  love  who  sang  the  song, 

Love  the  story  told. 
Ah,  but  we  remember  long, 

We,  grown  old. 

Only  yesterday  I  quaffed 

Life's  enkindling  wine; 
Only  yesterday  I  laughed 

Youth's  light  laugh  divine. 
It  was  love  who  played  the  host, 

Brimmed  the  cup  of  gold. 
Ah,  but  we  remember  most, 

We,  grown  old. 

Only  yesterday  my  eyes 

Held  Love's  marvelings ; 
Nay,  it  is  not  Time  that  flies — 

Love  alone  has  wings. 
Time  plods  slow,  in  very  truth; 

Love — what  man  may  hold  ? 
Ah,  we  know  who  filched  our  youth, 

We,  grown  old. 


37 


THE  UX  LIGHT  ED  HOUSE 

T    OVE  came  to  the  Unlighted  House 
*^     When  all  the  world  was  dark  and  mute 
As  some  dust-covered,  stringless  lute ; 

The  bare  trees  shivered  in  the  cold — 
Poor  trees  that  once  knew  flower  and  fruit ; 
On  either  hand  lay  heaped  the  snow 
When  silently  as  cravens  go, 

Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House. 

Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House— 
The  windows  stared  like  dead  men's  eyes 
Set  wide  in  unexplained  surprise 
Unkindled  by  the  soul  within ; 
The  wide  door  closed  on  secrecies ; 

There  came  no  sign  to  greet  this  guest 
When  in  that  hour  unloveliest 
Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House. 

Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House 

And  raised  the  latch  and  entered  there, 
And  room  on  room  was  coldly  bare ; 

Cold  ashes  whitened  on  the  hearth  ; 
The  dust  lay  white  on  floor  and  stair ; 
The  silence  threatened  and  appalled 
When  thus,  unwelcomed  and  uncalled, 
Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House. 

38 


THE  UNLIGHTED  HOUSE 

Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House — 
A  guest  who  tarried  on  his  ways 
Too  many  nights,  too  many  days — 
A  guest  despaired  of  and  forgot. 
Time  hastens  whilst  a  god  delays. 
To  empty  rooms  and  desolate, 
Penitent,  wistful,  over-late, 

Love  came  to  the  Unlighted  House. 


39 


WOULD  IT  HAD  BEEN  MINE  ENEMY 

\17OULD  it  had  been  mine  enemy 

Who  came  a  secret  way — 
O,  but  the  door  that  waits  a  friend 

Swings  open  to  the  day. 
There  stood  no  warder  at  my  gate 

To  bid  Love  stand  and  stay. 

Would  it  had  been  mine  enemy 

In  open  fight  and  great — 
'Gainst  the  Beloved  who  goes  armed 

In  strength  inviolate, 
Or  dreads  lest  in  his  hands  he  bear 

The  hungry  blade  of  hate? 

Would  it  had  been  mine  enemy 
Who  mocked  to  see  me  low — 

Better  all  anger  than  this  thought 
Love  left  to  scar  me  so, — 

My  heart  was  naked  to  his  hand, 
His  hand  who  gave  the  blow! 


40 


HEROES 

V\7HEN  I  think  sometimes  of  what  wondrous  fame 

Hath  fallen  upon  men  of  noisy  deeds, 
Of  laurel  flung  for  every  drop  that  bleeds, 
And  grateful  nations  busy  with  a  name, 
I  turn  to  those  who,  deaf  to  praise  or  blame, 
Labor  in  silence  for  their  brothers'  needs, 
Sowing  in  darkness  those  immortal  seeds 
One  day  to  blossom  in  men's  souls  like  flame. 
Ah,  these  unrecognized,  unhailed,  denied, 
These  heroes  of  what  land  or  age  they  be, 
Who  mutely  anguish  at  the  task  undone, 
These  wonderful  white  Christs,  not  crucified 
On  a  high  place  for  all  the  world  to  see, — 
But  striving  on,  unnoted  and  alone ! 


THE  UNREPENTANT 

JV[  OW  my  time  has  come  to  die, 

Good,  my  masters,  hear, 
This  a  sinner's  litany, 

Shocking  to  your  ear : 
Life  hath  played  for  me  to  dance 

Up  and  down  the  line  — 
(Eh,  I  paid  the  fiddler,  sirs, 

But  the  dance  was  fine ! ) 

Love  came  swinging  to  my  call — 

Black-eyed  love  and  bold; 
Gave  me  scarlet  lips  to  kiss, 

Both  her  hands  to  hold. 
Fast  and  faster  fell  our  feet 

To  the  music's  beat — 
(Eh,  I  paid  the  fiddler,  sirs, 

But  the  dance  was  sweet!) 

I  have  danced  it  through  the  world — 

Ah,  the  merry  tune! 
Danced  the  red  sun  down  the  West, 

Danced  away  the  moon. 
Could  I  cavil  at  the  price? 

Out  on  souls  so  mean! 
42 


THE  UNREPENTANT 

(Eh,  I  paid  the  fiddler,  sirs, 
But  the  dance  was  keen!) 

Beggared  now,  my  masters  all, 

Cry  your  cold  dispraise  ; 
Raise  your  eyes  and  count  your  gold, 

Trudge  your  dreary  ways. 
I,  the  pauper,  richer  far, 

Envy  not  nor  pine — 
(Eh,  I  paid  the  fiddler,  sirs, 

But  the  dance — was  mine!) 


THE  RETURN 

I"    ONG,  long  he  stood  and  watched  alone 

Her  lighted  window-pane, 
As  though  it  were  Love's  face  that  shone 
Upon  his  grief  again. 

A  vagrant  in  the  village  street, 
One  with  the  rain  and  night, 

Bird-like  he  felt  his  wild  heart  beat 
And  burn  against  the  light. 


44 


AFTERWARD 

T   SAID,  "The  bitterness  of  grief  is  gone; 

Henceforward  I  will  only  think  of  her 
As  one  too  glad  for  selfish  tears  to  stir — 
A  saint  who  touched  and  blessed  me  and  passed  on ; 
My  angel  evermore  to  bend  and  take 
My  broken  prayers  to  God  for  love's  dear  sake." 

"The  bitterness  of  grief  is  passed,"  I  said; 
Then  turned  and  saw  about  me  everywhere 
The  dear,  accustomed  things  her  touch  made  fair  ; 
Her  books — the  little  pillow  for  her  head, 

The  pen  her  hand  had  dropped,  the  simple  song 
She  laughed  in  singing  when  a  note  went  wrong. 

I  said,  "The  bitterness  of  grief  is  fled, 
Knowing  a  new  saint  walks  in  Paradise, 
With  peaceful  heart  and  quiet  in  her  eyes. 
And  this  at  last  shall  comfort  me,"  I  said. 

But  O,  this  song  she  sang,  this  book  she  knew, 
This  little  pillow — must  I  brave  them  too? 


45 


NEW  ROSES 

T^HE  Old  Love  kissed  you  and  went  by, 
•"•      Without  the  New  Love  stands 
With  roses  red  to  crown  your  head, 
New  roses  in  his  hands." 

I  know  not  if  she  heard  at  all ; 

I  only  know  she  bent 
Above  the  withered  blooms  she  held, 

As  one  too  well  content. 

"In  this  your  house  grown  desolate 

The  chills  of  Winter  cling; 
The  New  Love  waits  without  your  gates 

To  lead  you  back  to  Spring." 

I  know  not  if  she  heard  at  all ; 

I  only  know  she  turned 
Her  hands  above  the  empty  hearth, 

As  though  the  ashes  burned. 

The  New  Love  singing  went  his  way 
Across  the  blossomed  lands — 

A  little  lad  with  Springtime  glad 
And  roses  in  his  hands. 

I  know  not  if  she  heard  at  all ; 

I  only  know  she  pressed, 
As  mothers  might  a  little  child, 

The  dead  rose  to  her  breast. 


THE  CHILD 

T  HEARD  her  crying  in  the  night, — 

So  long,  so  long  I  lay  awake, 
Watching  the  moonlight  ebb  and  break 
Against  the  sill  like  waves  of  light. 

I  tried  to  close  my  eyes  nor  heed 
And  lie  quite  still — but  oh,  again 
The  little  voice  of  fright  and  pain 

Sobbed  in  the  darkness  of  her  need. 

Strange  shadows  led  me  down  the  stair; 

Creaked  as  I  went  the  hollow  floor; 

I  drew  the  bolts  and  flung  the  door 
Wide,  wide  and  softly  called  her  there. 

Ah  me,  as  happy  mothers  call 

Through  tender  twilights  to  the  gayf 
Glad  truant  making  holiday 

Too  long  beyond  the  evenfall. 

The  garden  odors  drifted  through, 
The  scent  of  earth  and  box  and  rose, 
And  then,  as  silently  as  those, 

A  little  wistful  child  I  knew. 

47 


THE  CHILD 

So  small,  so  frightened  and  so  cold, 
Ah,  close,  so  close  I  gathered  her 
Within  my  arms,  she  might  not  stir, 

And  crooned  and  kissed  her  in  their  hold. 

As  might  a  happy  mother,  when, 

Aghast  for  some  quaint,  trifling  thing, 
One  runs  to  her  for  comforting, 

And  smiles  within  her  arms  again. 

All  night  upon  my  heart  she  lay, 

All  night  I  held  her  warm  and  close, 
Until  the  morning  wind  arose 

And  called  across  the  world  for  day. 

The  garden  odors  drifted  through 
The  open  door ;  as  still  as  they 
She  passed  into  the  awful  day, 

A  little,  wistful  child  I  knew. 

Think  you  for  this  God's  smile  may  dim 
(His  are  so  many,  many  dead) 
Seeing  that  I  but  comforted 

A  child — and  sent  her  back  to  Him! 


CONSCIENCE 

A     KNOCKING  at  my  heart — and  what  art  thou  ? 

"I  was  the  unforgiven ;  from  your  door 
You  spurned  me  once  and  bade  me  come  no  more. 
/  am  the  ever  present  suppliant  now!' 

A  famine  at  my  heart — and  what  art  thou? 
"I  was  that  Lazarus,  of  men  the  least, 
Whom  once  you  sent  anhungered  from  your  feast. 

/  am  the  ever  present  hunger  now." 

An  aching  at  my  heart — and  what  art  thou  ? 
"I  was  that  love  you  chose  once  to  deride, 
Who,  wounded  at  your  threshold,  fell  and  died. 

/  am  the  ever  present  longing  now." 

A  sweetness  at  my  heart — and  what  art  thou  ? 
"I  was  the  kindly  deed  you  quite  forgot, 
The  joy  bestowed  that  you  remember  not. 

I  am  your  Angel  of  Forgiveness  now" 


49 


A  SONG  IN  AUTUMN 

A  UTUMN,  Autumn,  give  me  of  your  crimson, 
^     Give  it  me  for  courage,  for  the  year  has  left  me 

meek ; 

And  your  crimson  banners  flying,  as  the  sign  of  your  de 
fying, 
Shall  dare  my  heart's  denying  the  patience  of  the  weak. 

Autumn,  Autumn,  give  me  of  your  yellow, 

Give  it  unto  me  for  hope — the  hope  I  could  not  hold; 

For  where  your  gold  is  burning  I  feel  the  dream  return 
ing, 
The  darling  pain  of  yearning  whose  passing  left  me  old. 

Autumn,  Autumn,  take  me  to  your  heart  so, 

The  bold  heart,  the  singing  heart  whose  strength  shall 
make  me  strong; 

Send  my  healed  life  faring  in  colors  of  your  wearing, 
Your  gold  and  crimson  bearing,  against  a  grief  too  long. 


THE  DAY  IS  COME 

:"*  HE  day  is  come  that  I  knew  must  be 
(Nothing  may  trouble  me  any  more) 
Love  has  looked  on  me  wistfully, 

Kissed  me  and  left  me  and  closed  the  door. 

PVee  he  went — as  he  entered  free — 

But  with  him  too  went  the  dread  I  bore. 

The  day  is  come  I  knew  must  be, 
Nothing  may  trouble  me  any  more. 

Always  I  knew  it  must  come  to  me — 
This  time  I  have  warded  yet  waited  for, 

With  a  heart  that  broke  at  its  certainty ! 

O,  the  joy  and  the  hope  and  the  dread  are  o'er 

The  day  is  come  that  I  knew  must  be, 
Nothing  may  trouble  me  any  more. 


"ET  IN  ARCADIA  EGO" 

\     SIMPLE  print  upon  my  study  wall, 
**        I  see  you  smile  at  it,  my  masters  all, 
So  simple  it  could  scarce  indeed  be  less — 
A  shepherd  and  a  little  shepherdess 
Who  let  their  sheep  go  grazing,  truant-wise, 
To  look  a  moment  in  each  other's  eyes. 

"A  gray-haired  man  of  science,"  thus  your  looks, 
"Why  is  this  trifle  here  among  his  books?" 
Ah,  well,  my  answer  only  this  shall  be, 
Because  I  too  have  been  in  Arcady. 

My  students  give  grave  greeting  as  I  pass, 
Attentive  following  in  talk  or  class, 

Keen-eyed,  clear-headed,  eager  for  the  truth; 

Yet  if  sometime  among  them  sits  a  youth 
Who  scrawls  and  stares  and  lets  the  lesson  go 
And  puts  my  questions  by,  unheeding  so, 

I  smile  and  leave  his  half-writ  rhyme  unvexed, 

Guessing  the  face  between  him  and  the  text. 
A  foolish  thing, — so  wise  men  might  agree — 
But  I  wrote  verses  once — in  Arcady. 

The  little  maid  who  dusts  my  book-strewn  room, 
Poor  dingy  slave  of  polish  and  of  broom, 

52 


"ET  IN  ARCADIA  EGO" 

Who  breaks  her  singing  at  my  footsteps'  sound, 
She  too  her  way  to  that  lost  land  has  found. 

Last  night,  a  moonlit  night  and  passing  late, 

Two  shadows  started  as  I  neared  the  gate, 

And  then  a  whisper,  poised  'twixt  mirth  and  awe, 
''The  old  Professor.     Mercy,  if  he  saw!" 

Ah,  child,  my  eyes  had  little  need  to  see — 

I  too  have  kissed  my  love — in  Arcady. 

My  mirror  gives  me  back  a  sombre  face, 

A  gray-haired  scholar,  old  and  commonplace, 
Who  goes  on  his  sedate  and  dusty  w^ays, 
With  little  thought  of  rosy  yesterdays. 

But  they  who  know  what  eager  joy  must  come 
To  one  long  exiled  from  a  well-loved  home, 

When  fares  some  kinsman  from  that  selfsame  land 
To  give  him  greeting — they  may  understand 

How  dear  these  little  brethren  needs  must  be 

For  that  I  too  have  lived  in  Arcady. 


53 


COMPENSATION 

DECAUSE  I  craved  a  gift  too  great 
For  any  prayer  of  mine  to  bring, 
To-day  with  empty  hands  I  go ; 
Yet  must  my  heart  rejoice  to  know 
I  did  not  ask  a  lesser  thing. 

Because  the  goal  I  sought  lay  far 
In  cloud-hid  heights,  to-day  my  soul 
Goes  unaccompanied  of  its  own; 
Yet  this  shall  comfort  me  alone, 
I  did  not  seek  a  nearer  goal. 

O  gift  ungained,  O  goal  unwon! 
Still  am  I  glad,  remembering  this, 
For  all  I  go  unsatisfied, 
I  have  kept  faith  with  joy  denied, 
Nor  cheated  life  with  cheaper  bliss. 


54 


VAGABONDS 

OD  gave  unto  the  Philistine, 

Who  toils  at  desk  and  mart, 
The  silver  pieces  broad  and  fine 
And  broidered  coat  and  smart, 
But  gave,  O  brothers,  for  our  part 
The  roving  foot  and  free; 

The  children  of  the  merry  heart — 
Life's  vagabonds  are  we. 

The  elder  son  hath  glowing  hearth 

And  quiet  home  and  house; 
The  younger  son  hath  all  the  earth 

Wherein  he  may  carouse. 

The  elder  son  his  goodly  spouse 
For  once  and  all  has  ta'en ; 

Upon  the  younger's  tattered  blouse 
More  heads  than  one  have  lain. 

Then  ho,  for  stirrup  and  for  spur, 

Across  the  world — away! 
Nor  pause  to  snatch  a  kiss  from  her 

We  courted  yesterday. 

'Tis  some  must  dance  and  some  must  play, 
Some  pay  and  some  go  free. 

God  keep  you,  sirs,  who  stare  and  stay — 
Life's  vagabonds  are  we. 


55 


THE  SENDING 


~*  WAS  God  in  Heaven  who  spake  to  Death 

That  stood  beside  his  knee: 
"  O  lover  of  all  men  that  live, 

Whose  arms  clasp  land  and  sea, 
Find  thou  on  earth  the  weariest  soul 
And  bear  it  hence  to  me." 


It  was  God's  messenger  who  went 

Swift-footed  on  his  way; 
Like  flame  he  crossed  the  rim  of  night, 

Like  shadow  crossed  the  day, 
And  as  he  passed  the  glad  dead  smiled 

As  soothed  children  may. 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  sped 

Like  blown  wind  through  the  spheres; 

Across    the  little  paths  of  earth, 
With  feet  that  no  man  hears, 

He  reached  the  portal  of  that  place 
That  is  the  House  of  Tears. 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  stood 
And  watched  with  pitying  eyes 
The  burning  tears  of  those  who  wept, 

56 


THE  SENDING 

Who  heard  the  broken  sighs 
Of  men  who  cried  aloud  their  griefs 
And  mourned  their  miseries. 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  spake: 
"  Not  theirs  the  gift  I  bring. 

Behold  the  sorrow  that  is  said 
Becomes  a  little  thing; 

And  there  is  solace  in  man's  tears 
That  is  God's  comforting." 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  went 

The  little  ways  of  earth. 
The  red  moon  smouldered  in  the  clouds 

Like  fire  upon  a  hearth, 
And  lo !  he  came  unto  that  place 

That  is  the  House  of  Mirth. 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  heard 
The  laughter  and  the  cheer. 

The  wine  was  red  upon  the  board, 
The  lights  burned  high  and  clear, 

And  one  laugh  rang  above  the  rest 
That  joyed  men's  hearts  to  hear. 

It  wras  God's  messenger  who  heard 

One  voice  above  the  rest — 
She  who  was  gayest  in  the  song 

57 


THE  SENDING 

And  quickest  with  the  jest, 
And  lo !  he  saw  the  broken  heart 
That  ached  within  her  breast. 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  bent 

And  touched  her  tenderly: 
"  Great  is  the  anguish  of  a  smile 

That  shows  where  grief  should  be, 
And  awful  are  the  unshed  tears 

That  never  man  may  see." 

It  was  God's  messenger  who  spake 

That  word  that  no  man  saith ; 
It  was  the  poor  soul  on  his  breast 

That  smiled  in  her  last  breath, 
"  Strove  I  not  well? — how  didst  thou  know 

I  was  so  weary,  Death !  " 


THE  BOOK 

T     IFE,  I  have  made  a  book  of  my  mistakes; 
*•"*      Regret  hath  clasped  and  Sin  hath  blotted  it 
And  therein  are  my  blunders  clearly  writ. 

And  therein  do  I  find  much  knowledge  hid — 
Wisdom  that  la)^eth  hold  of  every  sense 
With  the  strong  grasp  of  grim  experience. 

And  would  you  study  with  me  ?    Nay,  my  friend, 
Not  one  may  read  and  benefit  thereby 
In  all  the  world,  not  one — save  only  I. 


59 


SAINT  CECILY 

I    KNOW  not  what  she  sang,  or  if  she  sang — 
Only  I  know  her  fingers  on  the  keys 
Touched  the  gold  heart  of  all  glad  harmonies 
Till  all  my  vibrant  soul  responsive  rang; 
And  on  a  sudden,  through  the  darkened  room, 
There  seemed  an  instant's  tremor  in  the  air 
Of  moving  wings,  and  white  against  the  gloom 

Soft  faces  bent  to  her,  divinely  fair ; 
And  somewhere  were  white  roses,  and  there  grew 

Above  her  lifted  head  a  slender  ring 
That  glowed  and  vanished — and  she  rose,  nor  knew 
The  reason  of  my  awe  and  wondering. 

O,  I  have  seen  Saint  Cecily,  and  I 

Have  breathed  her  roses.     I,  her  worshiper, 

Have  seen  the  beauty  of  Saint  Cecily 
When  angels  spake  with  her. 


60 


A  SONG  TO  BELINDA 

O  ELINDA  in  her  dimity, 

*-^     Whereon  are  wrought  pink  roses, 

Trips  through  the  boxwood  paths  to  me, 

A-down  the  garden  closes, 
As  though  a  hundred  roses  came, 

('Twas  so  I  thought)  to  meet  me, 
As  though  one  rosebud  said  my  name 

And  bent  its  head  to  greet  me. 

Belinda,  in  your  rose-wrought  dress 

You  seemed  the  garden's  growing; 
The  tilt  and  toss  o'  you,  no  less 

Than  wind-swayed  posy  blowing. 
'Twas  so  I  watched  in  sweet  dismay, 

Lest  in  that  happy  hour, 
Sudden  you'd  stop  and  thrill  and  sway 

And  turn  into  a  flower. 


61 


HOW  WILL  IT  BE? 

LJOW  will  it  be  when  Spring  comes  back  again, 
*         Golden  wTith  sun  and  musical  with  rain? 
I  can  be  brave  when  snowdrift  fills  the  air 
To  know  Love  dead ;  content  that  I  may  share 
My  sorrow  with  the  gray  world's  patient  pain. 

Nay,  1  forgot,  O  foolish  heart  and  vain, 
That  some  day  all  of  sunshine  everywhere 
Would  clasp  and  kiss  the  earth  to  make  it  fair — 
How  wrill  it  be  when  Spring  comes  back  again  ? 

Love  in  my  heart  so  many  months  hath  lain 
Like  some  dead  flower  that  the  frost  hath  slain, 
I  am  afraid  lest  some  delicious  day, 
Lo,  he  may  quicken  in  the  flower's  way, 
When  May's  white  magic  'wilders  soul  and  brain — 
How  will  it  be  when  Spring  comes  back  again  ? 


62 


THE  PASSING 

"TS  this  a  time  for  setting  forth — 

The  driven  clouds  hang  low, 
A  wolf-wind  howls  from  out  the  North 

Across  the  wastes  of  snow?" 
"  Nay,  kiss  me  on  my  mouth,  true  wife, 

The  hour  is  come  to  go." 

"  But  go  you  out  to  fight,  my  Lord? 

Your  men-at-arms  sleep  all — 
And  go  you  without  horse  and  sword 

To  meet  your  foeman's  call?" 
"  I  bear  another  weapon,  wife, 

Stiff  fingers  let  not  fall." 

"But  go  you  fasting,  Lord  of  mine, 

Ere  yet  the  feast  be  spread  ?" 
"  The  Priest  shall  touch  my  mouth  with  wine, 

My  lips  with  broken  bread, 
That  in  that  far  place  where  I  fare 

My  soul  shall  go  full-fed." 

"  And  whither  leads  the  path,  my  Lord, 

That  you  would  take  alone?" 
11  It  leadeth  to  a  silent  ford 

63 


THE  PASSING 

Unseen  of  moon  and  sun." 
"  And  shall  one  point  the  way  to  you?  "- 
"Aye,  one  and  only  one." 

"  And  whoso  Is  the  foe  that  stands 
To  give  you  battle  there?" 

"  One  with  no  weapon  in  his  hands 
And  with  his  body  bare, 

And  in  his  eyes  the  selfsame  look 
My  saddest  sin  may  wrear. 

"  Now  lay  the  cross  in  my  two  hands, 

And  bid  the  Priest  begin, 
Seeing  I  fare  to  Death's  dark  lands 

To  war  with  that  my  Sin, 
Who  stands  before  the  door  of  God 

And  will  not  let  me  in." 


THE  WIFE 

T"HE  little  Dreams  of  Maidenhood— 

I  put  them  all  away 
As  tenderly  as  mother  would 

The  toys  of  yesterday, 
When  little  children  grow  to  men 

Too  over-wise  for  play. 

The  little  dreams  I  put  aside — 

I  loved  them  every  one, 
And  yet  since  moon-blown  buds  must  hide 

Before  the  noon-day  sun, 
I  close  them  wistfully  away 

And  give  the  key  to  none. 

O  little  Dreams  of  Maidenhood — 

Lie  quietly,  nor  care 
If  some  day  in  an  idle  mood 

I,  searching  unaware 
Through  some  closed  corner  of  my  heart, 

Should  laugh  to  find  you  there. 


THE  CURE'S  NIECE 

INCE  Gaston  kissed  and  rode  away, 

Babette  sits  weeping  all  the  day, 
And  goes  no  more  to  fete  or  fair, 
Who  one  time  was  the  gayest  there. 
The  cure  says,  and  so  say  I, 
"  Love  is  a  sorry  thing  to  try. 

"  My  niece,"  says  he,  "hath  too  much  wit 
Ever  to  give  a  thought  to  it." 
"O  Uncle,  yea!"  I  cry. 

Wherefore  I  treat  the  lads  with  scorn — 

I  toss  my  curls  at  maids  forlorn  ; 
Still,  one  May  night,  I  chanced  to  see 
Where  Jean  went  walking  with  Marie, 

And  suddenly  he  bent — and  O ! 

My  cheek  was  red  as  hers  I  know. 
It  did  not  seem  so  wrong,  and  yet 
How  sad  she  is,  that  poor  Babette! 

And  Uncle  says  and  so  say  I, 

"  Love  is  a  sorry  thing  to  try." 

But  Easter,  when  I  went  to  mass, 
The  miller's  Raoul  watched  me  pass 

With  such  black  eyes — I  laughed  and  then, 
I  know  not  why — I  looked  again; 
66 


THE  CURE'S  NIECE 

And  when  Marie  and  Jean  came  by 

I  felt  so  sad — I  wonder  why. 

And  last  night  in  the  garden  he — 
(Saints!  had  the  cure  chanced  to  see!) 

"  My  niece,"  says  he,  "  hath  too  much  wit 

Ever  to  give  a  thought  to  it." 
"O  Uncle,  yea!"  I  cry. 


67 


LOST  GIFTS 
I. 

HP  HE  years  we  spent  together — what  are  they 
*       But  blown  dust  on  the  wastes  of  yesterday? 

Yet  should  I  find  my  joy  I  must  go  back, 
Seeking  its  fragments  where  the  gray  years  stay. 

Who  knows  what  ghost  may  come  the  selfsame  track, 
Wistful,  for  that  his  live  hand  cast  away? 


II 


The  dream  we  dreamed  together — it  is  gone 
Like  some  frail  rose  a  great  wind  falls  upon, 

Destroying  utterly.    Yet  I,  in  truth, 
Would  give  all  golden  gardens  'neath  the  sun 

For  one  torn  petal  from  that  rose  of  youth, 
And  nowhere  may  I  find  one — nay,  not  one. 


Ill 


Perchance  that  happiness  we  have  not  known 
Love  now  bestows  on  other  lovers,  grown 

More  worthy  of  a  gift  left  unpossessed. 
Those  vagabonds  met  there  beneath  the  blown 

May  Moon  to-night,  may  wear  within  each  breast 
The  joy  divine  that  might  have  been  our  own. 

68 


TIME 

A17HEN  I  think  sometimes  of  old  griefs  I  had, 
*"        Of  sorrows  that  once  seemed  too  harsh  to 

bear, 

And  youth's  resolve  to  never  more  be  glad, 
I  laugh — and  do  not  care. 

When  I  think  sometimes  of  the  joy  I  knew, 

The  gay,  glad  laughter  ere  my  heart  grew  wise, 

The  trivial  happiness  that  seemed  so  true — 
The  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 

Time — Time  the  cynic — how  he  mocks  us  all! 

And  yet  to-day  I  can  but  think  him  right: 
Ah  heart,  the  old  joy  is  so  tragical 

And  the  old  grief  so  light. 


69 


AT  COLUMBINE'S  WINDOW 

'"FHE  moonlight  to  her  window-sill 

Clung  like  a  tendrilled  vine 
That  trembles  though  the  wind  is  still, 

And  through  the  night's  decline, 
Stole  Pierrot  by  the  blossomed  hedge, 

To  sing  to  Columbine. 

Beneath  her  lattice,  where  the  rose 
Reached  up  to  find  her  hand, 

He  waited  in  her  garden  close, 
As  some  white  ghost  might  stand ; 

The  tinkle  of  his  mandolin 

Was  wave  on  shell-strewn  sand. 

His  voice  was  like  a  bird  that  beat 

Against  her  latticed  pane; 
His  mandolin  held  all  the  sweet 

Insistence  of  the  rain 
That  whispers  to  the  drooping  rose 

To  rise  and  bloom  again. 

"  Gold  o'  the  moon,  you  are  all  mine,  all  mine, 
The  while  I  touch  the  hair  of  Columbine! 
Stars  o'  the  sky,  you  are  all  mine,  all  mine, 
The  ivhile  I  watch  the  eyes  of  Columbine! 
70 


AT  COLUMBINE'S  WINDOW 

Rose  o'  the  world,  you  are  all  mine,  all  mine, 
The  while  I  taste  the  lips  of  Columbine! 
But  while,  sweetheart,  you  sleep  and  these  deny, 
Nor  gold  nor  stars  nor  any  rose  have  I" 

The  curtain  at  her  window-sill 

Quivered  and  stirred  apace, 
As  one  who  felt  her  fingers  thrill ; 

And  through  the  narrow  space 
The  voice  of  Columbine  fell  down 

Like  rose  leaves  on  his  face. 

"  Gold  o'  the  moon,  for  him  how  can  it  be 
Who  stands  within  its  glow,  and  will  not  see? 
Stars  o'  the  sky,  how  can  he  find  them  fair 
Who  will  not  lift  his  eyes  to  seek  them  there? 
Rose  o'  the  world,  how  may  he  know  its  power 
Who  will  not  dare  the  thorn  to  wear  the  flower?  " 

The  moonlight  on  her  window-sill 

Bent  low  to  lift  him  high  ; 
The  roses  of  their  tender  will 

Were  hands  to  help  him  by ; 
The  tender  arms  of  Columbine 

Were  wings  that  he  might  fly. 


AT  COLUMBINE'S  WINDOW 

The  sudden  sun  danced  up  the  lawn, 
The  wind  came  keen  and  fine ; 

One  singing  through  the  hedge  has  gone 
Against  the  sunrise  line; 

And  on  his  lips,  like  some  red  rose, 
The  kiss  of  Columbine. 


THE  HILLS 

OMY  Soul,  let  us  go  unto  our  hills, 
We  were  native  to  them  one  day,  you  and  I — 
Less  dwellers  of  the  earth  than  of  the  sky 
Where  the  holy  sense  of  silence  stays  and  stills, 
Like  a  hand  of  benediction  lifted  high. 

We  have  stayed  in  this  market-place  too  long; 

We  have  bartered  with  the  birth-right  in  our  breast ; 

We  have  shamed  us  with  buffoonery  and  jest, 
Nor  raised  our  eyes  to  where  our  hills  were  strong, 

Above  this  petty  region  of  unrest. 

O,  my  Soul,  let  us  go  unto  our  hills, 

To  their  wonderful,  high  silence  and  their  might, 
Where  the  old  dreams  shall  whisper  us  by  night 

Till  the  sullen  heart  within  us  stirs  and  thrills, 
And  wakes  to  weep  and  wonder  and  delight. 

O  my  Soul,  let  us  go  unto  our  hills. 


73 


HARVEST 

C\    I  saw  her  at  the  time  of  the  sowing  of  the  grain — 
The  April  sun  had  broken  through  a  filmy  mist  of 

rain, 

And  a  little  wind  and  sweet 
Swayed  the  grasses  at  her  feet 
As  I  turned  to  look  and  turned  to  smile  and  turned  to 

look  again; 

And  I  said,  "  How  good  a  thing 
Is  the  promise  of  the  Spring —  " 
At  the  time  of  the  sowing  of  the  grain. 

O,  I  kissed  her  at  the  time  of  the  growing  of  the  grain — 
Her  laugh  was  like  the  melody  that  threads  the  lark's  re 
frain  ; 

Bud  and  blossom  everywhere 

Sent  their  perfume  through  the  air 

And    the    branches    bent    above    her    with    their    golden 
Autumn  gain — 

And  I  said,  "  Lo,  Love  hath  growrn 

Like  the  seeds  thy  hand  hath  sown —  " 
At  the  time  of  the  growing  of  the  grain. 


74 


HARVEST 

O,  I  won  her  at  the  time  of  the  mowing  of  the  grain — 
We  guided  o'er  the  empty  fields  the  heavy-laden  wain, 

And  my  life  was  like  to  sing 

With  the  joy  of  harvesting — 

O,  Love's  sowing  nor  his  growing  nor  his  mowing  were 
in  vain! 

And  I  said,  "  Give  thanks,  my  heart, 

For  the  store  that  is  thy  part —  " 
At  the  time  of  the  mowing  of  the  grain. 


75 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  ANGEL 

"\X7HO  is  it  knocking  in  the  night 
That  fain  would  enter  in  ?  " 
"  The  ghost  of  Lost  Delight  am  I, 

The  sin  you  would  not  sin, 
Who  comes  to  look  in  your  two  eyes 

And  see  what  might  have  been." 

"  O  long  ago  and  long  ago 

I  cast  you  forth,"  he  said, 
"  For  that  your  eyes  were  all  too  blue, 

Your  laughing  mouth  too  red, 
And  my  torn  soul  was  tangled  in 

The  tresses  of  your  head." 

"  Now  mind  you  with  what  bitter  words 
You  cast  me  forth  from  you?" 

"  I  bade  you  back  to  that  fair  Hell 

From  whence  your  breath  you  drew, 

And  with  great  blows  I  broke  my  heart, 
Lest  it  might  follow  too. 

"  Yea,  from  the  grasp  of  your  white  hands 

I  freed  my  hands  that  day, 
And  have  I  not  climbed  near  to  God, 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE  ANGEL 

As  these  his  henchmen  may?" 
"  Ah  man — ah  man,  'twas  my  two  hands 
That  led  you  all  the  way." 

"  I  hid  my  eyes  from  your  two  eyes 
That  they  might  see  aright." 

"  Yet  think  you  'twas  a  star  that  led 
Your  feet  from  height  to  height  ? 

It  was  the  flame  of  my  two  eyes 

That  drew  you  through  the  night." 

With  trembling  hands  he  threw  the  door, 
Then  fell  upon  his   knee: 

"  O  Vision,  armed  and  cloaked  in  light, 
Why  do  you  honor  me?" 

"  The  Angel  of  your  Strength  am  I 
Who  was  your  sin,"  quoth  she. 

"  For  that  you  slew  me  long  ago 

My  hands  have  raised  you  high ; 

For  that  mine  eyes  you  closed,  mine  eyes 
Are  lights  to  lead  you  by  ; 

And  'tis  my  touch  shall  swing  the  gates 
Of  Heaven  when  you  die!" 


77 


ILLUMINATION 

T    AST  night  I  dreamed  of  you.    I  thought  you  came 
And  caught  my  hands  in  yours  and  said  my  name 
Over  and  over,  till  my  soul  was  stirred 
With  that  fine  ecstasy  that  some  wild  bird 
May  know  when  first  he  feels  the  blossoming 
And  the  keen  rapture  of  the  glad  new  Spring. 

Almost  to-day  I  fear  to  meet  your  eyes 
Lest  I  should  find  them  suddenly  grown  wise 
With  knowledge  of  my  heart ;  almost  I  fear 
To  touch  your  hand  lest  you  should  come  too  near, 
And  startled,  dazed  by  some  fierce  inner  light, 
We  both  should  cry,  "  I  dreamed  a  dream  last  night !  " 


PAN 

JW1  OST  good  it  is  that  Pan  is  dead : 
1  Y  *     We  be  a  sad  and  sullen  folk 

Who  bend  beneath  a  strange  god's  yoke 
And  grind  our  hearts  for  daily  bread. 

To  him  what  sadness  has  been  spared, 
Who  died  before  the  world  was  old 
Nor  saw  his  forests  bought  and  sold, 

His  shy,  fleet  wood-mates  slain  and  snared. 

Who  died  remembering  the  dim 

Cool  twilights  when  his  clear  pipes  drew 
The  sweetest  songster  of  the  crew 

To  shrill  an  answer  back  to  him. 

Who,  dead,  remembers  only  this; 
The  darkling  river's  moonlit  space 
Wherefrom  the  white-limbed  naiad's  face 

Lifted  its  wet  red  lips  to  his. 

What  man  would  wish  him  life — to  see 

His  happy  river  made  a  slave; 

His  sleek,  wild  creatures,  fierce  and  brave, 
Heart-broken  in  captivity? 

79 


PAN 

To  know  his  nymphs  and  satyrs  fled  ; 
To  see  a  stern  God's  altar  made 
Where  once  the  crew  of  Bacchus  played ; 
To  know  his  forest  mute  with  dread. 

O,  well  that  Pan  is  dead — that  he 

Hath  missed  all  knowledge  of  the  gray 
Shadow  of  this  bleak  afterd?v, 

And  little  mirth  of  gods  that  be ! 


80 


A    CITY    VOICE 

r*\  UTS  IDE  here  in  the  city  the  burning  pavements  lie, 

There's  heat  and  grime  and  blown  black  dust  to 

help  the  day  go  by, 
There's  the  groaning  of  the  city  like  a  goaded,  beaten 

beast ; — 
I  know  a  place  where  God's  great  trees  go  up  to  meet 

His  sky 
Like  an  army  green  with  banners,  and  a  happy  wind 

released, 
Goes  swinging  like  a  merry  child   among  the  branches 

high. 

Outside  here  in  the  city  there's  a  poison  in  the  air — 
The  fevered,  heavy  hand  o'  heat  that  smites  and  may 

not  spare; 
There's  little  comfort  in  the  night — there's  torment  in 

the  day; — 
I  know  a  place  where  cool  and  deep  the  quiet  lake  lies 

bare, 
All  day  about  its  shaded  brink  the  wild  birds  dart  and 

play, 
And    willows    dip    their    finger-tips    like    dainty    ladies 

there. 


81 


A  CITY  VOICE 

O,  the  heart  of  me  is  hungering  for  my  own,  own  place, 
I'm  tortured  with  the  slaying  heat,  the  dizzy  headlong 

race. 

O,  for  the  soft,  cold  touch  of  grass  about  my  tired  feet, 
The  breath  of  pine  and  cedar  blown  against  my  weary 

face, 

The  lip-lap  of  the  water  like  a  little  song  and  sweet, 
And  God's  green  trees  and  God's  blue  skies  above  me  for 
a  space. 


82 


LOVE  LORE 


1M  OW  when  I  see  your  face,  sweetheart,  I  know 

What  the  rose  feels  that  through  the  chilling  night 
Yearns  for  the  sun,  despairingly,  when  lo ! 
The  sudden  warmth,  the  glorious,  great  light ! 

Now  when  I  hear  your  voice,  sweetheart,  I  know 
What  the  rose  feels  that  drought  hath  almost  slain, 

That,  thirsting,  droops  disconsolate,  when  lo! 
The  swift,  cold  air,  the  rapture  of  the  rain ! 


LOST  SUMMER 

MY  heart  hath  its  Springtime,  yea, 
Its  thrill  of  primal  happiness, 
Its  swift,  keen  days  of  gold  and  gray, 
Its  crescent  moon  of  promises. 

My  heart  hath  had  its  Winter,  O 
The  barren  land,  the  empty  ways, 

The  awful  silence  of  the  snow 

Through  the  untrodden  nights  and  days! 

Alas,  my  heart  that  might  not  know 

The  sweet,  deep  peace  of  Summer's  prime ! 

Only  for  you  the  crushing  snow 

And  Spring's  unrest  in  blossom  time. 


THE   KING'S    KISS 

\  1  7  E  rode  through  the  shouting  town ; 
'  She  clung  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd 

Like  a  crescent  moon  slipped  down 
The  stormy  black  of  a  cloud. 

Scarce  missing  my  horse's  feet 
By  a  turn  of  the  hand  and  head; 

And  O,  but  her  face  was  sweet, 
And  O,  but  her  mouth  was  red ! 

I  stooped  from  the  saddle  swift 
As  a  swooping  hawk  through  the  brine 

Pierces  to  strike  and  lift, 

And  I  touched  her  lips  with  mine. 

For  a  second's  fleeting  space 

I  captured  the  flame  of  her  eyes, 

The  quick,  hot  blush  of  her  face, 
Her  wondering,  mute  surprise. 

But  a  look,  a  touch,  and  then — 
Spurred  on  to  the  thundering 

Of  the  thousand  cries  of  men 
Who  hailed  their  anointed  king. 

85 


THE  KING'S  KISS 

Was  she  maiden,  was  she  wife, 
Was  she  wanton,  or  bold  or  shy  ? 

What  matter,  we  plucked  from  life 
An  ecstasy — she  an4  I. 

In  the  moment's  little  space 

Or  for  well  or  ill  was  it  done — 

The  girl  of  the  market  place 

And  the  crowned  king  were  one. 

In  purple  the  young  Queen  goes — 
Like  a  flower  of  snow,  her  face; 

Ah  me,  for  the  wild  red  rose 
I  kissed  in  the  market  place! 


86 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY 


the  church  on  All  Souls'  Day 
I  knelt  with  those  uncomforted, 
Who  bowed  their  weary  heads  to  pray 
Their  sad  prayers  for  the  happy  dead. 

We,  with  the  sting  of  tears  still  hot 
Upon  our  faces,  prayed  for  those 

Who  have  forgot  all  tears,  forgot 
The  long  passed  pageant  of  old  woes. 

We  of  the  anxious  soul  and  brain, 
Prayed  peace  for  those  who  ever  dwell 

In  that  great  calm  that  follows  pain, 
Safe-housed  in  God's  white  citadel. 

O,  futile,  tender  mockery! 

We,  hampered,  fettered  in  the  strife, 
To  pray  for  those  glad  souls  made  free 

Of  the  great  burden  that  is  life. 

Dear  God,  another  prayer  I  said; 

Humbly  I  asked  who  might  not  give  : 
Pray  ye  for  us,  thrice  happy  dead, 

For  us  ivho  live  —  for  us  who  live! 


A  BOOK  OF  VERSES 

/^\NLY  a  little  book  of  singing  rhymes 

Yet,  when  I  read,  there  sudden  seemed  to  ring 
Soft  to  my  ears  the  distant  caroling 

And  happy  note  of  silver-hearted  chimes 

That  pealed  in  some  Arcadian  morning-tide 
When  like  a  rose  on  roses  came  the  bride. 

I  know  one  morning,  when  the  world  was  young 
And  Spring  was  like  a  maiden  garbed  in  green, 
Some  Amaryllis  turned  to  look  and  lean 

When  melodies  like  these  her  shepherd  sung; 
So  clear,  so  delicate  that  scarce  a  bird 
Could  flute  an  answer  to  the  notes  he  heard. 

I  think  the  great  god  Pan  one  day  in  mirth 
Piped  him  a  song  too  fine  and  exquisite 
For  weight  of  years  to  crush  and  silence  it  ; 

Too  sweet  to  vanish  wholly  from  the  earth, 
It  loitered  long  in  alien  ways  apart, 
To  spring  at  last  in  this  new  singer's  heart. 


THE  BARRED  DOOR 

v 

f~\  NE  night  upon  mine  ancient  enemy 

^-^      I  closed  my  door, 

And  lo !  that  night  came  Love  in  search  of  me — 

Love  I  had  hungered  for — 
And  finding  my  door  closed,  went  on  his  way, 

And  came  no  more. 

Pray  you  take  counsel  of  this  penitent, 

And  learn  thereof: 
Set  your  door  wide  whatever  guests  be  sent, 

Your  graciousness  to  prove; 
Better  to  let  in  many  enemies 

Than  bar  out  Love. 


EXORCISM 

HE  who  one  day  was  my  guest 

Shall  be  guest  no  more ; 
Dark  the  room  that  knew  her  best, 

Closed  and  barred  the  door ; 
Every  casement  locked  to  her 
Who  \vas  Sorrow's  messenger. 

Now  forbidden  is  the  place 

That  she  knew  of  old, 
Nevermore  her  gloomy  face 

Peers  to  scoff  or  scold, 
With  her  cracked  voice  pitched  to  wheeze 
Tales  of  drear  despondencies. 

O,  she  made  this  hearth  of  mine 

Like  a  funeral; 
'Neath  her  eyes  the  fire's  bright  shine 

Seemed  to  fade  and  fall; 
When  the  sun  was  gold,  her  gloom 
Made  a  shadow  in  the  room. 


90 


EXORCISM 

Over-long  she  sat  with  me 

Ere  time  made  me  wise, 
Hearing  in  her  company 

Thrice  told  tales  and  lies 
Of  old  miseries  that  grew, 
Even  as  she  told  them,  new. 

Be  it  lack  of  courtesy, 

Be  it  fault  or  sin, 
Nevermore  to  mine  and  me 

Shall  she  enter  in, 
Nevermore  my  hands  shall  press 
Thine,  O  crone  Unhappiness! 

Light  the  lamps  and  set  the  feast, 

Bid  the  music  start, 
O  ye  joys  or  great  or  least 

Crowded  from  my  heart, 
Now  I  bid  the  dance  begin — 
Pray  ye  laugh  and  enter  in. 

Enter  in,  while  Time  endures, 

Merry  joys  of  earth, 
Heart  and  house  and  home  are  yours, 

Yours  are  roof  and  hearth. 
Greet  me,  pledge  me  cup  to  lip 
In  your  old-time  fellowship. 


EXORCISM 

I  am  free  who  once  was  slave, 
Pray  ye,  friends,  carouse 

That  this  creature  of  the  grave 
Is  forbid  my  house. 

Laughter,  lift  your  lips  to  me — 

Kiss  me,  blue-eyed  Comedy! 


THE  ASPEN  TREE 

'"THE  little  aspen  tree  stands  high 
*       Upon  the  hill  that  guards  the  lane; 
Her  leaves  are  green  as  emeralds, 
Her  prattle  is  like  dancing  rain. 
She  gossips  to  the  wind,  the  sky, 
And  we  are  comrades,  she  and  I. 

I  climb  the  hill  at  evenfall ; 

She  stands  so  high  she  may  look  down 
And  whisper  me  if  you  have  turned 

The  winding  highway  from  the  town, 
And  in  the  wind's  arm  bend  to  see 
And  murmur  that  you  haste  to  me; 

And  with  her  hundred  voices  tell 

Each  step  you  take  to  reach  my  side, 

And  laugh  in  merry  mockery, 

Pretend  to  scold  and  weep  and  chide, 

And  stand  a  moment  mute  in  grief, 

Then  laugh  with  every  rustling  leaf. 

And  when  at  last  you  take  my  hands 
And  call  my  name,  in  mimicry 

She  chatters  it  a  dozen  times  ; 
And  then  in  gay  and  elfish  glee 

Attunes  .her  happy  leaves  to  this — 

The  lisping  cadence  of  a  kiss. 


93 


THE  WELCOMING 

\17  E  were  alone  what  time  you  said 

Your  last  farewell  to  me, 
Ere  yet  you  joined  the  happy  dead 
In  their  fair  company. 

God  send  our  meeting  be  like  this 
In  Heaven's  loneliest  ring, 

Lest  angels  envy  us  the  bliss 
Of  that  first  welcoming. 


94 


A  WOMAN 

'T1  HE  great  love  that  was  not  for  her 

Passed  on,  nor  paused  to  see 
The  wistful  eyes,  the  hands'  vague  stir, 
The  mouth's  mute  misery. 

The  little  love  she  recked  not  of 

Crept  closer  bit  by  bit, 
Until  for  very  lack  of  love, 

She  smiled  and  welcomed  it. 

Not  hers  to  choose,  to  weigh  and  part 

The  greater  from  the  less  ; 
She  only  strove  to  fill  a  heart 

That  ached  with  emptiness. 


95 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SCULLION  MAID 

TT  was  the  little  scullion  maid 

Whose  willing  hands  served  them, 
Who  served  the  noble  guests  and  fine 
With  store  of  meat  and  poured  out  wine 
In  the  inn  at  Bethlehe?n. 

The  night  was  full  of  stinging  rain, 

The  mad  wind  drove  in  hate ; 
It  was  the  little  scullion  maid 
Who  leaned  into  the  dark  and  said, 

"One  crieth  at  the  gate!" 

"Behold,  there  are  two  travelers 

And  wearied  they  and  sore!" 
Then  quoth  the  landlord  at  his  wine, 
"I  trow  they  are  no  guests  of  mine — 

My  inn  will  hold  no  more. 

"Now  for  a  king  small  room  might  be, 

But  none  for  such  as  they. 
Let  them  begone,  or,  for  a  jest, 
Bid  them  among  my  kine  to  rest 

Until  the  break  of  day." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SCULLION  MAID 

It  was  the  little  scullion  maid 

Who  slipped  into  the  night 
To  bring  the  stabled  travelers 
The  bread  and  bedding  that  were  hers, 

And  oil  for  them  to  light. 

It  was  the  little  scullion  maid 

Who  braved  the  wind  and  sleet; 
As  through  the  darksome  night  she  crept, 
Sudden  a  great  star  flamed  and  leapt 
And  led  her  puzzled  feet. 

It  was  the  little  scullion  maid 

That  at  the  stable  door 
Heard  with  a  sudden  awe  beguiled, 
The  sharp  cry  of  a  little  child 

Where  ne'er  was  child  before. 

And  it  was  Joseph  took  her  gifts 

With  thankful  words  and  meet, 
And  low  the  little  scullion  maid 
Hath  knelt  at  Mary's  side  and  laid 

Soft  linen  at  her  feet. 

And  it  was  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 

The  new-born  child  spake  He — 
"My  Mother,  by  thy  throne  in  Heaven 
Shall  stand  those  saints  whose  joy  is  given 
To  minister  to  thee. 

97 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SCULLION  MAID 

1 '  Ursula — Agnes — Magdalen — 

Whose  names  are  loved  of  men, 
But  ever  at  thy  own  right  hand 
Behold,  this  little  maid  shall  stand 

Thy  chosen  handmaiden." 

//  was  the  little  scullion  maid 

Whose  willing  hands  served  them, 
Who  served  the  noble  guests  and  fine 
With  store  of  meat  and  poured  out  wine 
In  the  inn  at  Bethlehem. 


A  WIFE 

f   STRETCH  out  both  my  hands  to  you — 

It  pleased  you  once  to  call  them  fair; 
Look  now  and  see  if  anywhere 

Are  hands  more  scarred  and  worn  than  these 
That  lost  their  fairness  serving  you. 

I  lift  up  my  two  eyes  to  you — 
It  pleased  you  once  to  call  them  sweet; 
Judge  now  if  any  eyes  repeat 

Their  lack  of  light — poor  eyes  that  wept 
Their  sweetness  out  in  guarding  you. 

O  hands  and  eyes  once  dear  to  you, 
I  would  not  they  had  served  you  less, 
Yet  hands  like  these  who  might  caress, 
Nor  eyes  like  these  win  love  again 

For  all  their  wistful  prayer  to  you! 


99 


THE  CONSOLER 

nniME  comes  to  grief  as  Sleep  to  weariness — 
On  silent  sandals  and  with  shadowy  hair 
Sleep  bends  to  soothe  the  fretful  daytime  care, 
And  Time  unto  my  grief  shall  do  no  less. 
But  yet  a  little  and  his  hands  shall  press 

Above  the  weeping  eyes  and  close  them  there, 
Above  the  trembling  lips,  till  all  despair 
Lie  like  a  sleeping  child  in  his  caress. 
And  when  my  sorrow  wakes  it  will  not  be 
My  sorrow  any  more,  for  I  shall  smile, 

Beholding  it,  to  know  it  comforted; 
No  sorrow,  but  a  gracious  memory 

That  still  may  walk  with  me  a  little  while 
At  twilight,  or  when  April  boughs  are  spread. 


100 


UN  CONQUERED 

T    HAVE  fallen  once,  I  have  fallen  thrice, 
*      And  my  wounds  are  sad  to  see ; 
Yet,  brothers  of  mine,  take  these  for  sign 
That  I  fought  courageously. 

If  my  comrades  found  it  an  easy  thing 
To  pass  where  I  suffered  sore, 

Shall  they  hold  me  then  to  the  scorn  of  men 
That  I  struggled  and  strove  the  more  ? 

Forever  God  giveth  his  chosen  wings, 

Yet  the  goal  is  set  for  all, 
And  swift  and  high  may  the  winged  fly 

Where  the  earth-bound  needs  must  crawl. 


And  my  wounds,  my  bleeding,  my  strife,  my  tears 

Shall  cry  of  my  victory, 
For  they  prove  each  one  that  I  did  not  shun 

The  path  that  the  weaklings  flee. 


101 


THE  LOST  LAND 

VX7E  question  of  the  Captains, 

Each  morning  on  the  quay: 
"  Good  Masters,  have  you  ne'er  a  ship 

That  sails  to  Arcady?  " 
"  North  and  East  and  South  and  West, 

Our  white  sails  take  the  wind, 
But  never  port  o'  Arcady 

May  skipper  touch  or  find." 

O  lost  land  and  lovely  land,  across  the  leagues  of  foam, 
Across  the  sea,  across  the  sand  it's  we'd  be  winning  homt. 

For  that  we  chose  to  wander  once  in  quest  of  golden 
gain, 

Is  never  ship  upon  the  sea  can  take  us  back  again? 

We  question  of  the  Merchants 

Who  trade  by  land  and  sea: 
"  Now  pray  you,  Sirs,  whence  go  the  wares 

You  send  to  Arcady?  " 
"  North  and  East,  South  and  West, 

We  merchants  buy  and  sell, 
But  where's  the  mart  o'  Arcady 

Is  more  than  man  can  tell." 


102 


THE  LOST  LAND 

O  lost  land  of  dear  delights,  beyond  our  wistful  gaze, 
We  lost  the  way  in  noisy  nights,  in  jarred  and  jangling 

days. 

For  that  we  kissed  our  love  good-bye  to  folloiu  Pleas 
ure's  crew 
Is  never  path  about  the  world  can  lead  us  back  to  you? 

We  question  of  the  Wise  Men : 

11  Fair  Sirs,  of  courtesy, 
Now  show  us  where  the  glad  star  lies 

That  shines  o'er  Arcady?" 
"  North  and  East  and  South  and  West, 

We  call  the  stars  by  name, 
But  never  land  o'  Arcady 

Is  lighted  by  their  flame." 

O  lost  land  of  faith  and  truth,  not  all  our  useless  tears 
May    bring    us    back    the    dreams    of    youth    across    the 

crowded  years. 
Nor  merchants  in   the   market  place,   nor  skippers  on 

the  sea, 

Nor  craft,  nor  skill,  nor  wish,  nor  will  lead  back  to 
Arcady. 


103 


THE  LIMPING  ONE 

had  no  eyes  for  me,  my  lad, 
I  never  met  your  sight 
When  fiddles  played  upon  the  green, 
Or  girls  walked  out  at  night. 

The  laughing  girls,  the  dancing  girls, 

The  rosy  cheeks  for  you; 
You  knew  the  black-eye's  challenging, 

The  softness  of  the  blue. 

You  had  your  pick  and  choice  of  girls, 
What  call  had  you  to  face 

The  little,  limping  one  that  sat 
Beside  the  chimney-place. 

O,  girls  enough  they  cried  for  you 
The  day  you  said  good-bye; 

And  yet  I'm  thinking  there's  just  one 
Whose  tears  will  never  dry. 

And  girls  enough  wished  well  to  you 
The  hour  you  turned  away ; 

And  yet  I'm  thinking  just  one  prayer 
Goes  with  you  every  day. 

And  if  at  last  it  aids  you,  lad, 
You'll  never  guess  it  came 

From  just  the  little,  limping  one 
You  never  called  by  name. 

104 


A  PRAYER  TO  AZRAEL 

DECAUSE  thy  face  is  more  compassionate 
*~^      Than  God's  own  angel  Pity,  he  who  stands 

Above  the  world  with  healing  in  his  hands, 
Early  and  late, 
Therefore  I  dare  to  ask  a  little  thing. 

Though  unto  thee  no  man  is  small  or  great, 
The  humblest  beggar,  the  anointed  king 

Of  one  estate, 

Yet,  O,  how  often,  often  on  thy  breast 
The  little  children  rest, 

Feeling  thy  sombre  arms  about  them  close 

As  twilight  folds  a  rose; 
So,  even  I  this  little  prayer  dare  bring 
Unto  thy  pitying. 

I  pray  thee  find  me  not  my  hour  to  go 

Closed  within  any  dwelling  men  have  made — 
Those  four  poor  walls  where  I  may  crouch,  afraid 

As  from  a  foe; 

But  seek  me  on  my  hills,  my  hills  whereon 
The  free  winds  drift  and  blow, 

Between  the  green  and  gold  of  earth  and  sun, 
Ah,  find  me  so! 

I  would  not  quite  forget,  in  some  new  birth, 

The  joy  of  this  my  earth, 

Nor  lose  what  time  I  look  on  Paradise, 
The  vision  in  my  eyes 

Of  green  boughs  swaying  in  a  singing  wind — 

O  Azrael,  be  kind ! 

105 


THE  MEMORY 

j-^  OWN  the  little,  crooked  street  that  went  to  meet  the 
]_J       sea 

The  torn  nets  were  drying  on  the  grass — • 
(She  was  mending  at  the  old  nets — she  never  looked  at 

me — ) 
On  a  blue  September  morning  with  a  West  wind  blowing 

free, 
She  never  raised  her  head  to  watch  me  pass. 

'Tis  all   I   took  away  with  me — a  blue  September 

morning, 

The  little  street,  the    green    grass    and    one    girl's 
scorning. 

I've  forgot  my  Father's  house — the  house  that  saw  me 

born — 

Forgot  my  Mother's  blessing  at  the  last; 
There's  nothing  but  the  old  nets  tangled-like  and  torn 
And  the  head  that  bent  above  them,  yellow-colored  as  the 

corn, 
That  never  raised  to  watch  me  as  I  passed. 

I  wish  I'd  be  forgetting  it — a  blue  September  morn 
ing, 

The  blowing   grass,   the   torn   nets — and   one   girl's 
scorning. 


106 


THE  EXILE 

A  BOVE  him  in  the  city  street, 
^^     The  flame  of  noon  increased ; 
With  tumult  as  when  armies  meet, 
Life  urged  her  great  and  least; 
'Mid  din  and  turmoil,  dust  and  heat, 

Went  driven  man  and  beast. 
He  felt  the  salt  wind  on  his  face, 

The  wet  sand  at  his  feet; 
He  saw  the  white  sails  lift  again, 

He  heard  the  singing  sailor  men 
Above  the  combers'  beat; 

And  half  the  way  across  the  world  the  song  came  clear 
and  sweet. 

Above  the  dismal  lodging  hung 

The  heavy  heat  of  day; 
The  swarming  insects  buzzed  and  clung  ; 

Within  the  gas-light's  ray 
Men  wrangled  in  an  alien  tongue, 

Or  slept  as  cattle  may. 
He  felt  the  cool  of  dew-damp  fields, 

He  heard  the  fiddles  play 
The  old  remembered  dancing  tune; 

Pie  saw  the  white  midsummer  moon, 
And  mocking — luring — gay, 

The  sound  of  one  girl's  laughter  came  from  half  a  world 
away. 


107 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  COMFORTING 

MARY  smiled  on  her  little  Son, 
"Now,  why  hast  Thou  left  Thy  play?" 
"  But  to  touch  thy  hands  with  my  hands,  Mother, 

Lest  sometime  there  come  a  day 
When  I  may  not  close  them  within  mine  own, 
Though  they  fall  as  hurt  doves  may." 

Mary  smiled  on  her  little  Son, 

"  Now  blind  wouldst  Thou  have  me  go 

That  mine  eyes  Thou  hast  closed  with  kisses  twain  ?  " 
"  My  Mother,  I  may  not  know, 

But  I  fear  a  day  when  they  look  on  pain 
And  I  may  not  close  them  so." 

Mary  smiled  on  her  little  Son, 

Close,  close  in  her  arms  pressed  He: 
"  O  Mother,  my  Mother,  my  heart  on  thine 

Lest  sometime  a  day  may  be 
When  I  may  not  comfort  nor  make  it  whole, 

Though  it  break  for  love  of  me." 

Now  think  you  that  on  Calvary's  hill 

Whereon  her  Son  was  slain, 
She  felt  upon  her  eyes  that  touch 

That  veiled  them  unto  pain, 
And  filled  her  groping  hands,  and  bade 

Her  torn  heart  beat  again? 


1 08 


A  PARABLE 

f~\  NE  had  the  marble  ready  to  his  hand, 

^-^     And  cunning  instruments  to  cut  and  shape, 

And  made  a  form  of  beauty  and  command. 

And  one  toiled  wearily,  long  day  by  day, 
With  nothing  for  his  tools  but  naked  hands, 
And  nothing  for  his  work  but  common  clay. 

And  all  men  bowed  before  the  marble  form, 
And  hailed  him  master  who  had  done  this  thing ; 
And  at  the  clay  they  mocked  with  jest  and  scorn. 

And  one  walked  proudly,  crowned  with  men's  acclaim; 
And  one  sat  sullen,  muttering  in  his  beard, 
"Behold!    I  did  my  best;  whose  then  the  blame?  " 


109 


THE    VICTOR 

fTlHE  live  man  victorious 

Rode  spurring  from  the  fight; 
In  a  glad  voice  and  glorious 

He  sang  of  his  delight 
And  dead  men  three,  foot-loose  and  free, 
Came  after  in  the  night. 

And  one  laid  hand  on  his  bridle-rein — 
Swift  as  the  steed  he  sped — 

"O,  ride  you  fast,  yet  at  the  last, 
Hate  faster  rides,"  he  said. 

"My  sons  shall  know  their  father's  foe 
One  day  wrhen  blades  are  red." 

And  one  laid  hand  on  his  stirrup-bar 

Like  touch  o'  driven  mist, 
"For  joy  you  slew  ere  joy  I  knew 

For  one  girl's  mouth  unkissed, 
At  your  board's  head,  at  mass,  at  bed, 

My  pale  ghost  shall  persist." 

And  one  laid  hands  on  his  own  two  hands, 

"O  Brother  o'  mine,"  quoth  he, 
"What  can  I  give  to  you  who  live 
no 


THE  VICTOR 

Like  gift  you  gave  to  me? 
Since  from  grief  and  strife  and  ache  o'  life 
Your  sword-stroke  made  me  free." 

The  live  man  victorious 

Rode  spurring  from  the  fight; 

In  a  glad  voice  and  glorious 
He  sang  of  his  delight, 

And  dead  men  three,  foot-loose  and  free, 
Came  after  in  the  night. 


Ill 


A  SONG  OF  LOVE 

T    OVE  laid  his  hands  on  my  two  hands 

And  straightway   I   was  strong; 
He  held  my  eyes  within  his  eyes 

That  they  might  see  no  wrong; 
His  kisses  fell  upon  my  lips 

And  left  them  filled  with  song. 

The  meanest  task  my  hands  may  do 
For  Love's  sake  now  is  meet ; 

The  meanest  thing  my  eyes  may  see 
Grows  wondrous  and  complete; 

And  since  my  songs  are  all  of  him, 
Love,  must  not  they  be  sweet? 


112 


A  BOOK  OF  CELTIC  VERSE 
[To  SEUMAS  MACMANUS] 

P  HAT  was  never  a  book  that  you  brought  me  and  gave 

to  my  hand — 

'Twas  a  wind  sighing  and  a  wave  lifting, 
And  the  sight  of  a  red  moon  drifting 
O'er  a  far-off  land. 

That  was  never  a  thing  of  words  that  you  brought  and 

bade  me  know — 

'Twas  a  bugle  blowing,  a  flame  burning, 
And  the  gleam  of  a  swift  lance  turning 

To  the  flying  foe. 

That  was  never  a  printed  rhyme  that  you  brought  and 
bade  me  see — 

'Twas  a  child's  laughter  and  a  bride's  sighing, 

A  saint's  faith  and  a  strong  man's  dying, 
That  you  gave  to  me. 


TWO   CREEDS 

INSIDE  the  temple  door  the  sullen  light 

Fell  on  the  mouthing  man,  who,  stern  and  drear, 

Poured  down  upon  the  listening  crowd  the  blight 
Of  his  believing,  "  Find  thy  God  through  fear!  " 

But  out  within  the  green,  beneath  the  blue, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  nature's  festival, 
"  Love!   Love!  "  the  glad  birds  caroled  as  they  flew, 
"  O  Love!  Love!  Love!"  they  sang,  "  For  that  is  all." 


114 


THE  PRISONERS 

HP  HAT  which  we  wrere  forever  stands  between 

Ourselves  and  that  we  would  be.    With  frail  hands, 
Cold  upon  cither's  wrist,  an  Old  Year  stands 
And  holds  us  prisoners  for  what  has  been ; 
And  pitiful  her  eyes  that  needs  must  screen 
Our  restless  eyes  that  turn  toward  unseen  lands 
And  strange  new  days,  and  all  the  heart's  demands 
Falter  and  fail  before  her  wistful  mien. 
Surely  we  need  but  little  strength  to  break 
This  feeble  hold  and  turn  and  wander  free, 
Each  one  his  separate  way  beyond  her  door ; 
Strange  that  we  stand  here  sullenly  for  sake 
Of  that  brief  joy  she  gave  to  you  and  me, 
Ere  Love  went  weeping  to  return  no  more. 


A  FABLE 

S  it  not  enough,"  said  the  toad, 
"  To  have  sun  and  food  and  dirt, 
But  a  flame  that  flared  and  glowed 

Must  hurtle  you  on  to  hurt  ? 
You,  with  your  broken  wing, 

Beaten  and  bruised  and  burned — 
Fool  to  have  sought  the  light 

And  found  what  your  folly  earned. 
Is  it  not  peace  to  rest 

In  the  mellow  mud  of  the  road  ?  " 

#  *     # 

"  Alas,  but  the  flame  was  fair!  " 
Said  the  moth  to  the  toad. 

"  You  have  flown,"  said  the  toad,  "  for  this, 

To  lie  hurt  and  dying  and  torn ; 
You  are  crazed  and  killed  with  a  kiss, 

You  are  scorched  by  a  mocking  scorn, 
When  one  has  warmth  and  food, 

And  may  sit  and  blink  in  the  light, 
That  is  all  and  enough  of  good. 

Lie,  fool,  and  mourn  your  flight! 
Envy  me  where  I  squat 

Unscathed  in  the  mud  of  the  road !  " 

*  *     * 

"Alas,  but  the  flame  was  sweet!  " 
Said  the  moth  to  the  toad. 

116 


THE  LITTLE   GHOST 

T    AST  night,  through  driven  mist  and  beating  rain, 
One  came  whose  feet  had  known  the  path  before ; 
The  little  Love  we  buried  stood  again 
And  sobbed  beside  my  door. 

What  could  I  do,  oh   foolish  woman  heart, 

But  draw  him  in  and  hold  him  safe  and  warm? 

Why  had  Death  loosed  him,  helpless  and  apart, 
To  wander  in  the  storm? 

O  lips  and  hands  that  I  have  \vanted  most! 

My  arms  were  open !    Be  it  wrong  or  right, 
Who  could  turn  such  a  lonely  little  ghost 

Adrift  into  the  night  ? 


TWO   SINS 

T*  HE  sin  I  did  for  Love's  sake 

Lies  in  the  soul  of  me, 
And  lights  me  far  as  some  white  star 
Whose  strength  is  purity. 

The  sin  I  did  for  Hate's  sake — 
Ah  heart,  that  this  should  be! — 

Has  bound  the  feet  that  would  be  fleet, 
The  eyes  that  fain  would  see. 


118 


THE  STRANGER 

LJ  E  waited  here  among  us  for  a  fortnight  and  a  day — 
We  knew  as  much  before  he  came  as  when  he  went 
away; 
'Twas  he  that  had  the  dancing  eyes,  'twas  he  that  had 

the  smile, 
And  the  singing  voice  you'd  follow  though  it  led  you 

for  a  mile. 

The  shoulders  of  a  sergeant  too  for  all  his  chin  was  bare — 
A  rovin'  rangin'  soldier  lad  from  God  knows  where. 

Christian  bred  or  heathen  bred,  he  left  it  to  our  whim — 
The  bells  of  twenty  parishes  could  ring  for  all  of  him ; 
But,   faith,  he  had  a  way  with  him  that  never  came 

amiss — 
No  man  that  wouldn't  follow  him,  no  girl  he  couldn't 

kiss — 

And  always  with  the  face  of  one  that's  stepping  to  a  fair — 
A  rovin'  rangin'  soldier  lad  from  God  knowrs  where. 

He  waited  here  among  us  for  a  fortnight  and  a  day — 
But  here's  that  luck  goes  with  you,  lad,  wherever  you  may 

stray  ; 
And  here's  that  though  you  choose  to  tramp  through 

fifty  towns  or  more, 
The  times  you'll  knock  may  always  be  a  woman   at 

the  door. 
It's  you'll  be  sure  of  welcome  then,  as  she'll  be  sure  of 

care — 
Me  rovin'  rangin'  soldier  lad  from  God  knows  where. 

1 19 


GATHERED  ROSES 

A  S  one  through  some  beloved  garden  strays 
"^      For  the  last  time,  and,  lingering,  stays  to  break 

A  blossom  here  and  there  for  old  love's  sake, 
So  I  go  back  through  our  lost  yesterdays 
And  cull  my  fragrant  memories — your  praise 
And  pride  of  me,  the  songs  we  used  to  make, 
The  happy  name  you  gave  me.     Oh,  I  take 
So  little  ere  I  face  the  untried  ways. 
How  will  it  be,  dear,  when  I  look  on  these 
My  gathered  roses  in  the  years  to  be? 

Shall  I  Hehold  love's  garden  all  ablow 
As  once  we  knew  it,  or,  as  one  who  sees 
That  place  he  loved,  deserted  utterly, 
Given  to  emptiness  and  wind  and  sno\*  ? 


120 


IRONY 

OU  gave  me  my  work  to  do,  you  brought  and  set  it 

before  me ; 

I  laughed  with  the  laughter  of  one,  seeing,  who  under 
stands  ; 

I  bent  to  the  task  elate,  zeal  like  a  mantle  o'er  me — 
Why  did  you  break  my  wrists  and  shatter  the  strength 
of  my  hands? 

You  gave  me  a  song  to  sing,  and  mine  the  joy  of  the 

bringing 
Strands  of  Heaven,  and  sea  and  earth  strung  to  the 

perfect  note. 

Finished,  glorious,  whole,  I  raised  my  head  for  its  sing 
ing — 

Why  did  you  seal  ?ny  lips  and  crush  the  song  in  ?ny 
throat? 

The  work  I  was  fain  to  do — it  rusts  in  the  drift  of  the 

sands ; 
The  song  I  was  fain  to  sing  is  waste  for  the  winds  to 

float. 
Why  did  you  break  my  wrists  and  shatter  the  strength  of 

my  hands? 

Why  did  you  seal  my  lips  and  crush  the  song  in  my 
throat? 


121 


THE  UNFORGOTTEN 

T  T  is  all  calm  this  love  you  give  to  me. 
My  life  goes  gently  in  a  cloistered  hold 
Whose  windows  open  to  the  scanty  gold 
Of  tender  twilight  on  a  waveless  sea. 
This  is  the  joy  I  thought  might  never  be, 
The  comfort  granted  and  the  ease  untold ; 
This  is  the  dream  fulfilled,  that  in  the  old 
Despiteful  days  I  sought  for  wearily. 
Oh  strange,  most  strange,  that  from  this  peace  I  turn 
To  think  of  one  who  rode  a  dangerous  way, 

One  night  of  winds,  beneath  a  moon-mad  sky, 
Reckless  as  flame  that  leaps  to  cleave  and  burn, 
A  wild,  glad  lover  speeding  to  obey 

The  mocking  fate  that  bade  him  kiss  and  die. 


122 


A  PRAYER   TO  LOVE 

OKAY  you,  my  master,  let  me  keep  my  dream. 
Of  all  sweet  things  have  I  not  been  bereft — 
Of  very  youth,  of  very  happiness? 
Why  should  you  covet  this  one  fairing  left? 

Nay,  grant  me  this.    What  slave  could  ask  for  less? 
Pray  you,  my  master,  let  me  keep  my  dream. 

Pray  you,  my  master,  leave  to  me  this  thing, 
I,  who  was  rich  one  day,  to-day  am  poor 

Beyond  men's  envying,  save  but  for  this, 
This  dream  for  whose  glad  sake  I  still  endure ; 

All  else  you  filched  in  that  one  Judas  kiss. 
Pray  you,  my  master,  leave  to  me  this  thing. 

Pray  you,  my  master,  let  me  keep  my  dream. 
O  Love,  I  gave  to  you  so  much,  so  much — 
Desire  of  joy,  yea,  and  desire  of  tears — 
Leave  me  this  one  dear  solace  in  my  touch, 

This  little  lamp  to  light  the  desolate  years. 
Pray  you,  my  master,  let  me  keep  my  dream. 


123 


A  FADING  ROSE 

PHIS  was  the  rose  that  yesterday 

Made  my  nook  of  the  garden  gay  ; 
Bonnie  and  blithe  and  debonair, 
Kissed  of  the  sun  and  summer  air, 
Sweet  coquette  in  a  ruffled  dress, 
Glad  of  life  and  its  loveliness. 

Would  I  had  thought  it  greater  sin 
Thus  to  pluck  it  and  bring  it  in, 
Here  where  the  dusk  of  the  sunless  room 
Blurred  its  beauty  and  killed  its  bloom, 
Till  none  would  say  this  drooping  thing 
Once  was  merriest  child  of  Spring. 
Only  a  fading  rose,  and  yet, 
Wakes  in  my  heart  a  strange  regret, 
Such  as  might  come  if  one  should  see 
Columbine  in  her  tragedy, 
Or  a  laughter-loving,  little  Pierrette, 
A  sob  in  her  throat  and  her  blue  eyes  wet. 


124 


UNSHRIFEN 

T    HAVE  paid  well  for  every  sin 

And  blotted  out  the  score; 
So  great  I  made  my  punishment — 

Not  God  could  make  it  more. 

But  these  no  man  calls  sin — too  small 

For  penance  or  regret — 
The  tardy  thought,  the  careless  kiss, 

The  groping  hand  unmet. 

The  sorrow  that  I  left  unsoothed, 

The  word  I  left  unsaid, — 
Ah  me !   I  know  what  ghosts  must  stand 

Ahout  my  dying  bed. 


125 


A  MEMORY 

came  into  my  life  for  one  brief  day, 
Gave  me  the  laughter  of  your  lips  and  eyes, 
Touch  of  your  hand  in  mine,  then  turned  away, 
Yet  left  these  memories. 

Ah  child,  you  brought  strange  sunlight  to  my  gloom; 

So  carelessly  you  gave  a  thing  so  fair, 
As  though  one  passed  through  some  closed,  haunted  room, 

And  dropped  a  flower  there. 


126 


THE  LAST  GIFT 

T    LEAVE  this  book  for  you,  O  friend  of  mine, 
To  speak  for  me  that  day  my  lips  are  dumb; 
A  silent  messenger  I  bid  it  come 
To  gain  the  welcome  I  must  needs  resign. 
I  pray  you  on  that  night  you  miss  me  most, 

That  night  when  most  you  crave  a  word  of  me, 
Beside  your  fire  and  once  again  my  host, 

Open  this  book  and  greet  me  silently; 
And  read  the  poem  that  the  worn  page  shows 

I  loved  the  best,  and  linger  on  the  line 
I  marked  there,  as  to  say,  u  Lo,  once  a  rose 

I  closed  here  for  your  finding,  that  was  mine." 
And  otherwhere,  I  know  that  you  will  say, 

"  Perchance  she  smiled  here,"  and  your  smile  will 
break 

Upon  your  lips  for  our  old  laughter's  sake, 
And  I  shall  hear,  though  very  far  away. 
And  in  your  reading  if  perchance  you  see 

Upon  one  page  a  stain  a  tear  might  leave, 
I  doubt  not  our  two  hands  may  meet  and  cleave 

Once  more  in  their  old  bond  of  sympathy. 
Yea,  in  the  mists  of  that  dim  borderland, 

Beyond  our  wildered  thought  of  time  and  space, 
I  think  our  souls  a  little  while  may  stand 
And  look  a  moment  in  each  other's  face. 


127 


THE  PAGAN  SOUL 

VOLT  who  were  born  for  laughter  and  the  bright 
Gold  sun  of  morning  and  white  fire  at  night, 
Whose  voice  is  tuned  to  that  delicious  speech 
The  dryads  use  wThen  calling  each  to  each 
Across  keen  mornings  when  the  Spring  is  new 
And  high,  white  clouds  drift  bird-like  in  the  blue: — 

You  wrho  were  born  for  music  and  for  mirth — 
A  mad,  glad  soul  sent  jubilant  to  earth — 

What  strange  fate  set  you  a  bewildered  thing, 
Prisoned  in  this  dim  House  of  Suffering, 
Placed  in  the  midst  of  those  grown  sadly  wise, 
With  that  mute,  frightened  wonder  in  your  eyes  ? 

How  still  you  sit  what  time  there  ring  without 
Echoes  of  distant  merriment  and  shout! 
How  still  you  sit  what  time  the  wind  elate 
Calls  at  your  casement  for  his  glad-heart  mate, 
And  the  red  moon  comes  flaming  up  the  sky, 
Like  a  great  torch  to  set  strange  revels  by! 

O  child,  wre  mortals  knowing  wThence  'tis  sent, 
Bring  certain  wisdom  to  sore  punishment; 

We  ease  the  anguish  as  we  weigh  the  loss. 

But  you,  O  sweet  my  Pagan,  to  this  cross, 
Wondering,  wildered,  fettered  foot  and  hand, 
Why  are  you  bound  who  may  not  understand? 


128 


YOUTH 

T    IFE  in  the  Book  of  Lovers  bade  me  look. 
*^     Oh,  much  of  heart-break  in  the  pages  lay — 

Long  grief  and  fierce,  fair  joy  that  lasts  a  day ! 
All  this  I  read  before  I  closed  the  book. 

"Now  art  thou  warned,"  quoth  Life,  "what  loving  is. 
Filled  with  this  wisdom,  whither  dost  thou  go?" 
Then  I,  'twixt  awful  tears  and  laughter,  "  Lo, 
I  go  to  add  another  page  to  this !  " 


129 


THE  ANNUNCIATION 

C^  OD  whispered  and  a  silence  fell ;  the  world 
Poised  one  expectant  moment  like  a  soul 
Who  sees  at  Heaven's  threshold  the  unfurled 
White  wings  of  cherubim,  the  sea  impearled, 

And  pauses,  dazed,  to  comprehend  the  whole; 
Only  across  all  space  God's  whisper  came 
And  burned  about  her  heart  like  some  white  flame. 

Then  suddenly  a  bird's  note  thrilled  the  peace, 
And  earth  again  jarred  noisily  to  life, 

With  a  great  murmur  as  of  many  seas. 

But  Mary  sat  with  hands  clasped  on  her  knees, 
And  lifted  eyes  with  all  amazement  rife, 

And  in  her  heart  the  rapture  of  the  Spring 

Upon  its  first  sweet  day  of  blossoming. 


130 


RECRIMINATION 

C  O  long  you  walked  upon  the  selfsame  way — 

The  crooked  paths  of  many  a  night  and  day— 
^  You,  who  have  passed  the  pitfalls  and  the  snares, 
Could  you  not  warn  me  where  I  went  astray  ? 

O  child,  did  I  not  call— my  fears,  my  prayers 
Drowned  in  your  laughter,  jubilant  and  gay. 

Now,  from  the  happy  heights  whereon  you  stand, 
Why  could  you  not  have  stretched  a  guiding  hand, 

Or  pointed  but  a  pathway  for  my  feet 
That  stumbled  blindly  in  this  unlit  land  ? 

O  child,  you  found  your  gypsying  so  sweet, 
What,  though  I  strove,  you  would  not  understand! 

Nay,  but  some  mark  you  might  have  left  behind, 
Some  token  that  my  frightened  eyes  might  find  ; 

Some  little  sign  to  bid  me  know  and  stay 
And  find  my  pathway  ere  the  day  declined. 

O  child,  ?ny  feet  were  bleeding  all  the  way, 
Yet  to  their  stains  so  blind  you  were— so  blind! 

Now,  if  some  day  I  gain  my  goal  indeed, 
Will  I  find  solace  for  my  want  and  need? 

Ah,  surely  never  evil  may  befall 
As  sore  as  these  sad  wounds  wherewith  I  bleed ! 

O  child,  you  too  must  know  the  worst  of  all 

To  cry  to  one  beloved  who  will  not  heed. 


THE  MOTHER 

O  HE  will  remember  when  they  forget — 

I  knew  it  so  in  the  hour  I  died ; 
The  oil  was  touched  and  the  candle  set 

And  the  woman  I  worshiped  sobbed  beside; 
And  the  friend  I  had  loved  and  deified 
Hid  his  face  where  the  tears  were  weU 

And  the  Mother  who  bore  me  spake  no  word, 
But  the  break  of  her  heart  was  the  last  I  heard. 

Oh,  life  was  good  in  the  world  I  knew — 
Shall  I  be  sad  that  they  find  it  such  ? 

My  friend  hath  gained  him  a  friend  as  true — 
The  wife  of  me  thrills  to  a  new  hand's  touch. 
(Oh,  but  the  dead  forgive  so  much!) 

Tears  are  forgotten  and  grief  is  through. 

And  the  Mother  who  bore  me — only  she 
Hides  her  face  on  the  grave  of  me. 


132 


A  RAINY  DAY 

[TO  D.  B.  P.] 

P  HIS  is  my  dream,  to  have  you  on  a  day 

Of  beating  rain  and  sullen  clouds  of  gloom, 
Here  with  me,  in  the  old  familiar  room, 
Watching  the  logs,  beneath  the  flames'  swift  play, 
Burst  into  strange  conceits  of  bud  and  bloom. 

The  things  we  know  about  us  here  and  there, 
The  books  we  love  half-read  on  floor  and  knee, 
The  stein  the  Dutchman  brought  from  over-sea, 

Standing  invitingly  beside  your  chair; 

The  while  we  quote  and  talk  and — disagree. 

Rebuild  the  castles  that  we  reared  in  Spain, 
Re-read  the  poet  that  our  childhood  knew, 
With  eyes  that  meet  when  some  quaint  thought  rings 
true — 

O  friend,  for  some  such  day  of  cheer  and  rain, 
Books,  and  the  dear  companionship  of  you! 


133 


KNOWLEDGE 

OECAUSE  she  stepped  into  my  heart  one  day, 

Where  never  a  step  before  might  win, 
I  know  what  grace  fills  an  empty  place 
When  the  Well  Beloved  comes  in. 

Because  she  went  out  from  my  heart  one  day, 

I  know  as  never  another  one, 
The  lonely  gloom  of  a  crowded  room 

When  the  Well  Beloved  has  gone. 


J34 


A  PRAYER 

T  DO  not  pray  for  peace, 

Nor  ask  that  on  my  path 
The  sounds  of  war  shall  shrill  no  more, 

The  way  be  clear  of  wrath. 
But  this  I  beg  thee,  Lord, 

Steel  thou  my  will  with  might, 
And  in  the  strife  that  men  call  life, 

Grant  me  the  strength  to  fight. 

I  do  not  pray  for  arms, 

Nor  shield  to  cover  me. 
What  though  I  stand  with  empty  hand, 

So  it  be  valiantly! 
Spare  me  the  coward's  fear — 

Questioning  wrong  or  right : 
Lord,  among  these  mine  enemies, 

Grant  me  the  strength  to  fight. 

-  -  3  - 

I  do  not  pray  that  Thou 

Keep  me  from  any  wound, 
Though  I  fall  low  from  thrust  and  blow, 

Forced  fighting  to  the  ground  ; 
But  give  me  wit  to  hide 

My  hurt  from  all  men's  sight, 
And  for  my  need  the  while  I  bleed, 

Lord,  grant  me  strength  to  fight. 

135 


A  PRAYER 

I  do  not  pray  that  Thou 

Shouldst  grant  me  victory; 
Enough  to  know  that  from  my  foe 

I  have  no  will  to  flee. 
Beaten  and  bruised  and  banned, 

Flung  like  a  broken  sword, 
Grant  me  this  thing  for  conquering- 

Let  me  die  fighting,  Lord ! 


136 


THE  WEDDING  BONNET 

O  HE  tied  her  wedding  bonnet  on — 

The  rosy  bow  beneath  her  chin, 
And  all  the  little  birds  outside 
Burst  into  chorus  for  the  bride — 
Ah,  how  she  thrilled  to  hear  within ! 

She  tied  her  wedding  bonnet  on — 

Her  mirror  was  one  flattery ; 
The  roses  at  the  bonnet's  brim 
Seemed  all  her  passing  thoughts  of  him 

Transformed  to  pink  reality. 

She  tied  her  wedding  bonnet  on 

With  soft  and  tender  fingering, 
And  thought  whose  strong  brown  hands  would  so 
Bend  to  untie  the  dainty  bow, 

Then  blushed  as  if  she  felt  the  ring. 


137 


LABOR 

THERE  is  a  potion  of  forgetfulness 

As  wonderful  as  sleep  and  exquisite, 
And  he  who  once  hath  drunk  his  full  of  it 
Loses  his  sometime  heart-break  and  distress ; 
No  Lethe  this,  yet  in  its  depths  no  less 

Lies  Peace.     And  Life,  who  brewed  this  cup  with  wit, 
Hath  called  it  "Labor,"  and  those  men  who  sit 
About  his  board,  drink  deep  and  laugh  and  bless. 
Drink  and  forget  the  burden  of  old  sighs; 
Drink,  and  behold,  the  world  is  glorious! 

This  was  God's  plan ;  this  wondrous  gift  and  glad 
He  gave  to  Adam,  losing  Paradise, 

"Behold,  I  bid  you  labor!"  Yea,  and  thus 

Saved  the  first  man,  perchance,  from  going  mad. 


138 


THE  SPRING  CALL 

V\7HAT  was  it  made  me  drop  the  spade  and  lift  me 

head  to  look  again  ? 

Was  it  blowing  of  the  West  wind  or  a  bird-song  true  ? 
(Oh  Red-breast,  how  you  sang  it  till  the  bough  beneath 

you  shook  again.) 

"Ah,   Spring's  come   back  to  Kerry,   lad,  and   all  the 
world's  made  new." 

The n  it's  "Hi  Terry,  Ho  Terry,  here's  the  open  road 

for  you. 

Leave  the  old  men  have  the  roof  and  hug  the  chim 
ney  seat." 
Then  it's  "Hi  Terry,  Ho  Terry,  here's  a  tinker's  load 

for  you — 

A  ragged  coat,  a  merry  heart,  and  dancing  in  your 
feet." 

Sure,  all  the  little  willow  trees  have  on  their  veils  o'  green 

again, 

All  the  little,  clacking  brooks  are  urging  as  they  run. 
They're  calling  me,  they're  coaxing  me,  "  O,  follow  now 

we're  seen  again, 

And  Spring's  come  back  to  Kerry  with  the  West  wind 
and  the  Sun." 


139 


THE  SPRING  CALL 

Then   it's,  "Hi   Terry,  Ho    Terry,  here's  a  tinker's 

meal  for  you — 
The  sound  of  singing  fiddles  at  the  cross  roads  the 

day, 
The  lightest  feet  the  parish  round  tripping  through 

the  reel  for  you; 

Ah,   clap  a  primrose  in   your  cap  and  throw  the 
spade  away." 


140 


ONE   FIGPIT   MORE 

1V1OW,  think  you,  Life,  I  am  defeated  quite? 
More  than  a  single  battle  shall  be  mine 
Before  I  yield  the  sword  and  give  the  sign 

And  turn,  a  crownless  outcast,  to  the  night. 

Wounded,  and  yet  unconquered  in  the  fight, 
I  wait  in  silence  till  the  day  may  shine 
Once  more  upon  my  strength,  and  all  the  line 

Of  your  defences  break  before  my  might. 

Mine  be  that  warrior's  blood  who,  stricken  sore, 
Lies  in  his  quiet  chamber  till  he  hears 

Afar  the  clash  and  clang  of  arms,  and  knows 
The  cause  he  lived  for  calls  for  him  once  more; 
And  straightway  rises,  whole  and  void  of  fears, 
And  armed,  turns  him  singing  to  his  foes. 


141 


THE  PENITENT 

T  COME  to  thee  blind,  despairing, 

I  grope  where  I  may  not  see : 
Love,  thou  worker  of  miracles, 
Open  my  eyes  for  me. 

I  come  to  thee  deaf,  unheeding, 
Beggared  of  sound  and  voice: 

Love,  thou  maker  of  marvels, 
Bid  me  hear  and  rejoice. 

I  come  to  thee  shunned — a  leper, 
Scorned  in  the  sight  of  men : 

Love,  whose  pardon  is  cleansing, 
Make  thou  me  clean  again. 

Love,  thou  worker  of  miracles, 
Maker  of  marvels  sweet, 

Love,  whose  pardon  is  cleansing, 
These  my  tears  on  thy  feet. 


142 


AMANTIUM 


•     OVE  hath  querulous  grown  and  sad- 
We  should  have  parted  yesterday; 
A  wistful  lass  and  a  tender  lad  — 
Pity  it  was  wre  chose  to  stay. 

Over-long  was  the  joy  we  had  — 

Why  we  wearied  what  man  may  say  ? 

Love  hath  querulous  grown  and  sad  — 
We  should  have  parted  yesterday. 

O,  to  have  said  wrhen  hearts  were  glad, 
"  Kiss  me  and  go,"  as  lovers  may. 

Now  wre  sneer  that  the  dream  was  mad, 
\awn  and  wonder  and  turn  away. 

Love  hath  querulous  grown  and  sad  — 
We  should  have  parted  yesterday. 


143 


THE  CLOISTERED  ROSE 

PHE  rose  that  grew  in  the  nun's  white  window 

Ever  leaned  to  the  close-shut  pane, 
And  yearned  and  died — unsatisfied — 
For  touch  of  the  sun  and  rain. 

And  the  little  novice  kissed  it,  dead, 
And  the  slow  tears  stung  her  hand ; 

But  why  she  too  its  secret  knew, 
Ah,  who  may  understand? 


144 


RESURGAM 

E  doubted  our  God  in  secret, 

We  scoffed  in  the  market-place, 
We  held  our  hearts  from  His  keeping, 

We  held  our  eyes  from  His  face; 
We  looked  to  the  ways  of  our  fathers, 

Denying  where  they  denied, 
And  we  said  as  He  passed,  "  He  is  stilled  at  last, 
And  a  man  is  crucified." 

But  now  I  give  you  certain  news 

To  bid  a  world  rejoice: 
Ye  may  crush  Truth  to  silence, 

Ye  may  cry  above  his  voice, 
Ye  may  close  your  ears  before  Him, 

Lest  ye  tremble  at  the  word, 
But  late  or  soon,  by  night  or  noon, 

The  living  truth  is  heard. 

We  buried  our  God  in  darkness, 

In  secret  and  all  affright  ; 
We  crept  on  a  path  of  silence, 

Fearful  things  in  the  night; 
We  buried  our  God  in  terror, 

After  the  fashion  of  men  ; 
As  we  said  each  one,  "The  deed  is  done, 

And  the  grave  is  closed  again." 

145 


RESURGAM 

But  now  I  give  you  certain  news 

To  spread  by  land  and  sea: 
Ye  may  scourge  Truth  naked, 

Ye  may  nail  him  to  the  tree, 
Ye  may  roll  the  stone  above  Him, 

And  seal  it  priestly-wise, 
But  against  the  morn,  unmanned,  new-born} 

The  living  Truth  shall  rise! 


146 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CROSS 

/Wl  ELCHIOR,  Caspar,  Balthazar- 
Great  gifts  they  bore  and  meet; 
White  linen  for  His  body  fair 

And  purple  for  His  feet; 
And  golden  things — the  joy  of  kings — 
And  myrrh  to  breathe  Him  sweet. 

It  was  the  shepherd  Terish  spake, 

"  Oh,  poor  the  gift  I  bring — 
A  little  cross  of  broken  twigs, 

A  hind's  gift  to  a  king — 
Yet,  haply,  He  may  smile  to  see 
And  know  my  offering." 

And  it  was  Mary  held  Her  Son 

Full  softly  to  her  breast, 
"Great  gifts  and  sweet  are  at  Thy  feet 

And  wonders  king-possessed, 
O  little  Son,  take  Thou  the  one 

That  pleasures  Thee  the  best." 

It  was  the  Christ-Child  in  her  arms 

Who  turned  from  gaud  and  gold, 
Who  turned  from  wondrous  gifts  and  great, 


147 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CROSS 

P'rom  purple  woof  and  fold, 
And  to  His  breast  the  cross  He  pressed 
That  scarce  His  hands  could  hold. 

'Twas  king  and  shepherd  went  their  way- 
Great  wonder  tore  tfieir  bliss ; 

'Twas  Mary  clasped  her  little  Son 
Close,  close  to  feel  her  kiss, 

And  in  His  hold  the  cross  lay  cold 

Between  her  heart  and  His! 


148 


THE  WOMAN'S  THANKS 

THERE  is  so  much  strong  men  are  thankful  for — 
A  nation's  progress,  or  a  slow  strife's  end ; 
And  though  1  join  my  praise  with  theirs  to-day, 
Grave  things  are  these  I  scarce  can  comprehend, 

So  vast  are  they  ; 

And  so  apart,  dear  God,  I  pray  Thee  take 
My  thanks  for  these  Thy  little  blessings'  sake. 

The  little,  common  joys  of  every  day, 
My  garden  blowing  in  an  April  wind, 

A  linnet's  greeting  and  the  morning  fall 
Of  happy  sunshine  through  the  opened  blind, 

The  poplars  tall 

That  guard  my  threshold,  and  the  peace  that  falls 
Like  Sabbath  stillness  from  my  humble  walls. 

The  little,  simple  joys  that  we  forget 

Until  we  lose  them ;  for  the  lamp  that  lights 

The  pages  of  the  books  I  love  the  best, 
The  hearth's  red  welcoming  on  winter  nights, 

The  kindly  jest 

That  moves  within  its  circle,  and  the  near 
Companionship  of  those  the  heart  holds  dear. 


149 


THE  WOMAN'S   THANKS 

The  dear,  accustomed  joys  we  lightly  take 
Too  much  for  granted  sometimes,  as  a  child 

His  father's  gifts;  and,  so  remembering, 
For  these  my  thanks,  for  these  my  treasures  piled, 

Each  simple  thing 

Those  wiser  may  forget,  dear  Father,  take 
My  thanks  for  these  Thy  little  blessings'  sake. 


150 


A  GHOST 

'"TO-DAY  I  entertained  a  ghost — 

And  yet  he  came  in  live  man's  guise, 
With  ready  hands  to  greet  his  host, 

And  living  eyes. 
I  touched  his  hand  and  watched  his  smile, 

I  answered  to  the  words  he  said, 
And  marveled,  knowing  all  the  while, 

The  man  was  dead. 

For  I  had  known  him  quick  indeed, 

With  life  of  tears  and  life  of  mirth, 
A  living  heart  to  beat  and  bleed, 

A  thing  of  earth. 
And  even  I  had  watched  him  die 

Seeing  these  live  things  quitting  him, 
As  when  a  soul  goes  quietly 

And  eyes  grow  dim. 

But  this  ghost  looked  with  living  eyes, 

And  this  ghost's  hand  was  warm  to  touch, 
Perchance  had  I  not  been  so  wise, 

Knowing  too  much, 
I  had  not  guessed  what  horror  springs 

When  these  unliving  walk  again, 
Bereft  of  love  and  hate — such  things 

As  make  live  men. 


THE  NEW  MOON 

[A    Wood  in  Ionia.      Teleon   and  Chloe] 

TELEON 

Y  do  you  shiver ?    Has  the  air  grown  chill ? 
Your  hand  seems  almost  lifeless  in  my  hold — 
Like  some  white  flower  frost  hath  touched  to  kill. 

CHLOE 

Is  it  your  hand  or  mine  that  has  grown  cold  ? 
Nay,  let  mine  go.     How  silent  is  the  night — 
Dull  as  drugged  slumber  and  as  void  of  dreams. 
Have  you  no  speech? 

TELEON 

But  yestermonth  how  bright 
The  moon  was — like  a  hundred  golden  streams 
Poured  down  at  once  from  Heaven  was  its  light. 

CHLOE 

You  spoke  not  of  it  then ;  you  only  said — 

TELEON 

What  said  I?    Ah,  have  you  forgotten  quite? 

152 


THE  NEW  MOON 

CHLOE 

Why  raise  the  ghosts  of  sweet  words  that  are  dead  ? 

We  have  no  words  to-night,  we  only  know 

Something  most  exquisite  and  glorious 

Has  gone  from  us,  who  might  not  watch  it  go, 

Leaving  these  empty,  soulless  shells  of  us, 

Empty  of  feeling,  as  a  string] ess  lute 

Is  dumb  of  music.    And  I  know  not  why. 

TELEON 

I  may  not  answer.     All  my  heart  is  mute 

Like  a  stunned  thing.    I  only  know  that  I 

Am  beggared  of  all  bliss,  who  yesterday 

Was  as  a  king,  who  knew  none  kinglier 

In  joy  of  living  and  my  right  to  say, 

"  Mine !    Mine !    the  arms,  the  eyes,  the  mouth  of  her !  " 

Who  took  from  me  this  wondrous  heritage, 

This  birthright  of  desire  ? 

CHLOE 

Ah !  ask  me  not. 

What  matters  it  that  once  in  some  gold  age 
Two  dreamed  and  kissed  and  wondered — and  forgot. 

TELEON 

Forgot !    Will  you  forget  ? 

153 


THE  NEW  MOON 

CHLOE 

It  is  my  prayer. 

The  gods  are  kind.    What  profit  may  there  be 
In  weaving  withered  garlands  for  one's  hair — 
Poor,  scentless  aftermaths  of  ecstasy! 


TELEON 

I  crowned  you  once  with  flowers — poppies  red 
As  a  maid's  mouth  that  waits  her  lover's  kiss. 


CHLOE 

How  your  hands  trembled! 

TELEON 

And  the  words  you  said  ? 

CHLOE 

"  O  Love,  I  ask  no  queenlier  crown  than  this." 
And  there  was  silence  for  a  little  space. 

TELEON 

I  saw  the  great  tears  gather  to  your  eyes, 
And  then — 

154 


THE  NEW  MOON 

CHLOE 

Why  then,  your  kisses  on  my  face. 
Full  noon  it  was,  and  over  us  the  skies 
Arched  like  the  dome  of  some  great  temple,  blue 
As  Venus'  eyes;  the  sun,  that  flame  that  stirs 
Ever  upon  her  altar,  and  we  two 
High  Priests,  with  all  the  birds  for  choristers. 

TELEON 

It  was  a  holy  spot  wherein  we  stood. 
Think  you  the  path  is  lost  ? 

CHLOE 

Hark!    Heard  you? 

TELEON 

Yea, 

Methought  I  heard  a  bird  song  in  the  wood — 
A  bird  that  wakens  in  a  dream  of  day. 

CHLOE 

How  wonderful  his  voice  this  moonless  night ! 

There  was  a  night  I  heard  another  song 

Come  through  the  wood  like  that;  the  world  was  white 

With  the  new  Spring;  you  had  been  absent  long 

On  a  far  journey;  and,  too  sad  for  fear, 

155 


THE  NEW  MOON 

I  came  alone  to  this  our  trysting  place, 
With  little  hope;  when  sudden,  far  and  clear, 
I  heard  your  voice  that  sang,  and  all  the  space 
Between  us  straight  wTas  bridged  with  melody 
Whereon  my  heart  met  yours  ere  yet  you  came. 
Yet  seemed  the  coming  over-long  to  me. 

TELEON 

I  caught  your  hands  in  mine  and  said  your  name 
Once  only — and  was  dumb  for  very  bliss. 

CHLOE 

How  swift  the  night  went  by !     How  glad  we  were ! 
And  in  your  hands  my  two  hands  lay  like  this. 

TELEON 

And  thus  I  kissed  you,  lips  and  brow  and  hair. 
Ah,  but  you  tremble! 

CHLOE 

Hark!  that  bird  anew. 
Listen,  nay  listen,  hear  how  loud  he  sings? 

TELEON 
Give  me  your  hands. 

CHLOE 

Ah,  but  he  sings  not  true. 
That  is  a  song  of  Spring's,  a  song  of  Spring's, 
And  this  is  Winter. 

156 


THE  NEW  MOON 


TELEON 


Now,  if  Spring  be  gone, 
She  comes  again,  for  in  this  heart  of  mine 
A  something  breaks  in  blossom,  and  the  sun 
Thrills  in  my  veins  and  stirs  my  blood  like  wine. 


CHLOE 


And  I — 1  know  not  if  to  laugh  or  weep. 

My  heart  is  as  a  prisoned  thing  set  free, 

A  wakened  thing  that  starts  new-born  from  sleep. 

What  means  this  joy? 

TELEON 

Look  in  my  eyes  and  see. 
How  beautiful  you  are! 

CHLOE 

Nay,  but  my  eyes 
Are  drowned  in  yours. 

TELEON 

Ah,  closer — closer  still. 

CHLOE 

Kiss  from  my  lips  their  sacrilege  and  lies, 
Ere  this  new  bliss  grow  great  enough  to  kill, 
These  lips  that  said,  "  I  love  no  more!  " 

157 


THE  NEW  MOON 

TELEON 

But  see! 
What  light  is  this? 

CHLOE 

Perchance  that  glad  bird's  tune 
Made  visible,  fine  gold. 

TELEON 

Nay,  heart  of  me, 
Lean  from  my  arms  and  turn  and  look. 

CHLOE 

The  Moon 

TELEON 

The  New  Moon  that  is  builded  of  the  old, 
The  Old  Moon  born  again  into  the  New. 

[Silence] 
CHLOE 

Its  light  hath  crowned  your  head  with  very  gold. 

TELEON 

There  is  no  light  could  make  your  eyes  more  blue! 


158 


THE   LAST  SONG 

T  COME  from  a  long  journey  and  a  sore, 

My    feet    are    bleeding    where    the    thorns    have 

pressed, 

Yet  have  I  passed  by  many  an  open  door — 
(Only  within  your  arms  may  I  find  rest.) 

I  come  from  sound  of  little  souls  at  play, 
From  empty  laughter  that  may  never  cease, 

From  joys  grown  hideous  and  mirth  grown  gray — 
(Only  within  your  arms  may  I  find  peace.) 

I  come  a  wanderer  who  naught  may  bring 
Of  any  gladness  from  the  road  he  went, 

Save  one  sad  heart  that  cries  j^our  comforting — 
(Only  within  your  arms  is  my  content.) 


159 


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THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


1923 


MR  4  t'918 
NOT  5  1918 

n  ^1 1919 

MAY 


30m-l,'15 


YB  76456 


304242 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


